


connoisseurs of comfort

by sky_reid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, But Not Much, Cat/Human Hybrids, Don't Get Excited, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Frottage, I cannot believe I wrote this, Light Dom/sub, Living Together, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Scenting, Slow Burn, Spanking, i cannot believe this has so many words, mentions of minor past trauma, more detailed warnings in the notes, some musings on morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis has only really had his flat to himself for a few weeks when liam knocks on the door and brings him a new flatmate. this one turns out to be a bit different though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	connoisseurs of comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [favillesco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/favillesco/gifts).



> so i have no idea how i ended up with this??? i think two prompts somehow merged in my head (slave harry + catboy louis became catboy harry with a slightly traumatic past idk man idk) and this is a lot of things nobody asked for, but i'm really hoping you like it? and i'm so sorry for sending you like 23 messages and also for not actually sticking to a prompt and for the side pairing (because i don't write ziam which only shows up in one scene at the end) and also for my entire existence
> 
> thanks to dell, molly, lisa, grace and ema for help :)
> 
>  _vaguely spoiler-y warning thingies_  
>  so there's nothing explicit or even discussed by characters in too much detail but for the vast majority of his life prior to meeting louis harry was kept as a pet, essentially in captivity (almost like a slave) and he spends some time homeless and on the street which all leads to some psychological trauma (including some social anxiety, fear of loud noises and what can be read as denial or a slightly warped perception of previous experiences)
> 
> THIS IS NOW OFFICIALLY THE LONGEST FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN BYE
> 
> the wonderful [jess](http://prettytruthsandlies.tumblr.com/) did [this absolutely perfect drawing](http://prettytruthsandlies.tumblr.com/post/145872032396/for-skyreids-connoisseurs-of-comfort) of harry in this fic if you want an image! go send her love! (the drawing includes a teeny tiny spoiler for the last about a third of the fic)

_acquisition, n. – the act of acquiring or gaining possession; something acquired, an addition_

 

There is a giant wet lump of blankets next to Liam when Louis opens the door. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’re not doing your laundry here anymore,” he says, eyeing the patchwork mountain that’s taller than Liam himself. “I don’t care if _all_ your clothes end up pink, it took me a month to get rid of the dog hair last time.” Liam barks a little laugh and scratches at the back of his neck. He shuffles from one foot to the other, overly casual. “Why are you acting so shifty?” Louis asks, instinctively closing the door a little as if standing in the way isn’t already enough.

“Yeah, about that…” Liam starts with a forced chuckle. “Funny story—“

“What the _fuck_.”

The blankets next to Liam shift again. Louis only just resists the urge to clutch at his chest dramatically; he grips the doorjamb and watches closely as a tiny opening appears at the top of the pile. He feels like one of those dumb kids in American horrors, curious about what he’ll find if he reaches out even though his heart is beating like crazy. He half expects some sort of monster to jump out at him. If this is a prank, it’s either a very good or a very bad one; he can’t decide until he sees it play out in its entirety. He turns to Liam again.

“I, um. I found him. When I was taking out the rubbish.”

Louis frowns. “You found him _where_?” Then it hits him. “Wait, _him_?”

The blankets move again, folding in a little at the top like a cocoon closing up. Now that Louis is paying attention he can see that they’re less of a shapeless lump and more of a bundle around something, or apparently some _one_ , vertical. They’re also shaking a little and twist away when Liam touches them.

“It’s okay, I told you,” Liam says soothingly, taking his hand back and stepping a little closer to the blankets instead. “You can trust Louis.”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest, strangely defensive over his dishonour being called into question. “No, don’t trust Louis, that is a terrible idea. He will draw on your face while you sleep and glue your shoes together.”

“And talk about himself in third person,” Liam adds. The pile of blankets makes a sound that could be a snort or a sneeze, it’s hard to tell. It shifts around a little, falling open at the top again. A fluffy brown ear pops out. It twitches once, then disappears again.

“Liam,” Louis says slowly and as neutrally as he can. “Did you bring me a cat?” The blankets shuffle a little, a soft whining sound escaping them. Louis must be projecting something awful because he almost apologises to them. He should also really stop thinking of what is now obviously a person as a lumpy mountain of blankets.

“Louis,” Liam replies, mocking his tone. “Technically, he’s more human than cat.” Louis levels him with his best _don’t bullshit me_ look. He has no idea how well it works because it’s also his first and only _don’t bullshit me_ look. Really, he’s just trying to imitate Liam’s face. Liam huffs. “Look, I have no one else to take him to. Now, will you let us in?”

“No! I _just_ managed to get rid of Zayn, I’m not looking for roommates. You take him.” The blankets whimper pitifully. Louis tries not to feel guilty or be endeared. He knows he’s fighting a losing battle because he still hasn’t slammed the door in Liam’s face.

“I would! But you know I have dogs. _And_ Niall. He has to count for at least two dogs.”

Louis sighs. The first thing he did when he got his first real paycheck a few months ago was to find his own flat and move out of the one Liam now shares only with Niall, Zayn having (mostly) moved in with Gigi. It had been almost four years of them living together by then, four years of the four of them cramped in a flat that was meant for two, of petty arguments about whose turn it was to get the groceries or pay the bills or clean the kitchen, of always waiting for somebody to be done with the bathroom, of walking in on things they could’ve lived their whole lives without seeing. It wasn’t all bad, they’d certainly had some good times, but Louis was still glad to finally get out of there and have a place all to himself. He had about a week of looking forward to the only repercussions to forgetting something being getting annoyed with himself when Zayn decided their flat was too far away from the club they’d gone out to one night and slept on Louis’ new pull-out. One night turned to three, to five, to three months. It was almost nostalgic for a while, Liam and Niall coming over sometimes, always having somebody around to talk to, even finding his food half-eaten or gone. He eventually drew the line at seeing Gigi’s tits before his morning tea.

And now he’s taking in a traumatised stray kitten apparently.

“Fine,” he agrees, stepping aside and pulling the door open wider. Obvious relief spreads over Liam’s face, lips pulling up in a wide smile that makes his eyes crinkle. It’s almost cute enough to make Louis invite him in. “Blankets can stay,” he says, waving his hand in a vague inviting gesture. To Liam he adds, “You I’m not happy with right now.” Liam seems entirely unbothered by this, clapping a hand on the back of the pile of blankets that shuffles forward in turn, more to escape the touch than anything else Louis suspects. He waits until the blankets are settled by his side, an old pair of Liam’s shoes peeking out at the bottom, then looks back at Liam. “Goodbye, Liam,” he says pointedly and closes the door before Liam can say anything. A muffled titter comes from the blankets next to him.

Now that they’re standing closer together it’s obvious that whoever is underneath the blankets is taller than Louis. They also smell like a cat though, so at least Louis can take comfort in that. He reaches out before remembering how they reacted to touching and pulling his hand back. He clears his throat. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this awkward in his own home. This isn’t how he usually meets new people and he’s not entirely certain what to do.

“Okay, so,” he starts. The blankets shift around until there are two soft-looking ears and the top of a curly head visible. Louis was raised better than to pet people without their permission, but he almost does it anyway, an instinct to soothe both himself and others kicking in; instead he rubs his hands together in front of himself. “This would be easier if I could see your face you know,” he says, not unkindly.

One of the ears twitches. There’s a pause, then a low hum. And then, slowly, as if the person underneath is still deciding if they want to do it, the blankets are pulled down enough to reveal a face. A slightly dirty, slightly confused but pretty face. It tilts, then disappears behind the blankets again until Louis is only looking at a pair of wide-set green eyes hidden by strands of wet dark hair.

“Hello there,” he says.

The boy (because he’s pretty and he’s scared and he has ears that pull back a little at the greeting, but he’s definitely a boy, probably around Louis’ age too) blinks at him slowly a few times. “Hi,” he replies, the word slow and drawn-out and almost a question. His voice is deep and a little hoarse. Louis wonders if he always sounds like that or if it’s just the cold. He rubs his hands together again for something to do; the way the boy is looking at him, unblinking, feels like a challenge, as if he is being tested somehow. He’s never dealt well with failing and he doesn’t want to start this as of yet undefined relationship with it.

“Do you have a name?” he tries. He thinks the boy is laughing at him because his ears come up and his eyes get this spark in them.

“Everybody has a name,” he says.

Louis rolls his eyes. He did walk into that one. “Fair enough. What is yours then?”

The boy looks away for a second. His eyes dart over Louis’ shoulder and down before meeting his again. The door, Louis realises, a way out. He moves aside slowly, taking a few steps into the flat. The boy’s eyes follow him, but he doesn’t move either closer or away. He’s silent for a few more breaths, ears pressing down closer to his head.

Finally, he mumbles, “Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Louis says, “I’m Louis.” Harry looks down and burrows a little more into the blankets. His hair falls in his face, but Louis once again has the distinct impression that he’s amused. “But you already knew that,” he voices the second the realisation dawns on him. Harry doesn’t say anything. The blankets come up to one of his ears as if he’s shrugging a shoulder underneath them. Louis shakes his head at himself. If he ends up living indefinitely with a stray cat and actually _liking_ it, he might strangle Liam because that was very much not what he had in mind when he paid his first rent here. He heads into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water and leans on the fake marble top of the island. There’s a round stain of something that looks like milk in front of him. Harry is still watching him. “You can leave if you like,” Louis offers. “You’ve heard that I’m not thrilled about sharing this place right now, I’m definitely not going to stop you.” He says it to placate Harry who obviously doesn’t trust him yet and he says it because it’s the truth, so really, it’s not manipulative, he reasons. Even if he is maybe hoping to get something out of Harry’s reaction.

Harry glances at the door again, then back at Louis. Finally, he stands up a little taller, toes off Liam’s shoes and nudges them to the side, and shuffles over into the living area, sitting down on one of the tall barstools on the other side of the island. He doesn’t offer an explanation for his decision.

The silence that follows is tense. Harry won’t look away and he doesn’t blink much; it makes Louis a little uncomfortable. He shifts from one foot to the other and drinks the water just to have an excuse for looking away. “Okay, then,” he says, so loudly Harry jumps a little. He scrubs a hand over his face and steps away. “So, if this is happening, we have to have some ground rules.” Harry just keeps looking at him with the same nearly creepy intensity as before, so he continues. “There’s one bedroom and I’m keeping it. You’ll eat and drink whatever’s already here or you can buy your own groceries if you don’t like it. And if you stay for more than two months, I expect you to start paying some rent.” He scratches at the back of his neck, trying to remember if there is anything else. He thinks back on Zayn’s stay there, all the things that ended up driving him mad, but somehow Harry doesn’t seem the type to barge into the bathroom for a piss while he’s taking a shower or bring a girlfriend home and screw her in his bed. “I think that’s it for now,” he says.

Harry tilts his head. The blankets fall open a little further, revealing his whole face and a portion of his neck; there’s a collar on it. “Okay,” he says simply.

Louis eyes him suspiciously. It can’t be that simple. “Okay,” he repeats, dragging it out and expecting Harry to interrupt with some sort of a counteroffer. Harry doesn’t; he doesn’t even blink. For the first time since Liam showed up at his doorstep, Louis actually starts to wonder where Harry came from. It is no longer legally possible to own hybrids like him and in Louis’ experience the practice is thought outdated at the very least, but a long history of treating them as lesser beings, as no more than animals they have similarities with, has made cruelty towards them quite commonplace among the more traditional; a hybrid taken from their family, kept as a pet and even a slave, or kicked out onto the street to fend for themselves is still, unfortunately, far from unusual. Though there is a possibility that he chose to, the fact that Harry wears a collar is not a good sign. He may have escaped a less than ideal situation, may be in danger and probably has nowhere to go. It’s as likely as anything that he’s agreeing to whatever Louis says because he has little other choice. Louis leans back against the sink, unsettled by the mere possibility. “Would you like something to drink? Eat maybe?” he asks.

Harry looks at him for a long moment, as if assessing his options. He shakes his head slowly, almost uncertainly. “Liam bought me water. And a sandwich,” he says. _Liam also found you by a dumpster_ , Louis doesn’t say. If Harry is lying, then Louis will let him. If this is a test, then Louis will pass it. Harry can make his own choices.

“Cold?” Louis asks, pointing at the way Harry is still bundled up. “I can turn the heat up.” Harry watches him, tilting his head to the side. His ears twitch. His nose does too. “You could have a shower? The towels are still clean and there’s clothes in the machine that you can borrow.” Harry blinks. One corner of his lips comes up in a ghost of a lopsided smile. Louis feels a strange warmth spread through him, a feeling like taking the first sip of scalding tea on a winter morning or putting on a shirt straight from the dryer. He claps his hands once and pushes off the sink. “Well, then,” he says. “There’s bedding and blankets in the cupboard in the hallway, but you’ll have to use one of the throw pillows because I don’t have spares. If you need anything… Find it yourself and don’t wake me up.” He pauses for a second to think about that. “And if you steal something, I’ll know. It looks like a mess, but I’ll know. And I _will_ come after you.” Harry makes a weird sound in his throat, a cross between a cough and a snort. Louis almost touches him as he leaves, only remembering at the last second not to. He settles for looking over his shoulder (maybe more than once) on his way to his room. It’s still quite early for him and he won’t be sleeping for a few more hours, but he figures leaving Harry alone is the best way to build some trust between them. They are, after all, living together for the time being; some freedom and respect of privacy is mandatory.

He leaves the door to his room cracked open just in case.

*

For a few unbearable seconds Louis genuinely believes he’s dead. Sometime in the middle of the night, he stopped breathing and now one of his friends will have to break down the door and find his lifeless body in the bed. That’s the only explanation because this has to be hell; it is not possible for a place this far from the equator to be this hot.

And then he remembers last night. Liam ringing his doorbell and Harry bundled up in too many blankets and brushing his teeth in a bathroom that smelled like cat and his shampoo. He yanks the covers off. He’s covered in sweat, the threadbare tee he sleeps in sticking to his skin and the sheets rough as sandpaper on his legs. He unplugs his phone and checks the screen for the time. There’s a text from Liam that he ignores and a weather doodle that tells him it’s cloudy and raining and fucking freezing which Louis hates but would happily take over the tropical heat right now; it’s just past eight. He groans and shoves his face back in the pillow. It smells like sweat.

“Fuck,” he grumbles as he crawls out of bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He gets cold easily and he likes it to be warm wherever he goes, but this is insane. “Harry!” he yells out, padding out of the room without bothering to put anything on; even his bare feet stick to the floor.

If possible, the living area is even hotter. The heat must be turned all the way up; worrying, considering how old the place is and the fact that Louis doesn’t own a fire extinguisher. The wobbly coffee table that made Louis hate everything Swedish to have ever existed is pushed to the side, the sofa still pulled out in its place and a wrinkled baby blue sheet spread over it. Liam’s blankets are piled up on one side, clean and dry now. It’s obvious Harry slept there. He’s nowhere to be seen now, though.

“Fucking hell,” Louis curses angrily. He struts over to the wall, lowers the heat settings to significantly colder than he is used to, hoping that will help speed up the process, and turns around to survey the flat. Apart from the furniture that was moved, nothing else seems to be different; his TV is still there, as is the ancient VCR the previous tenants left behind and none of the kitchen appliances seem to be missing either. The key is still in the lock, right where he left it. The only thing wrong that he can find is the door to the cupboard which is not closed all the way. He frowns. Harry doesn’t appear to have taken anything, doesn’t even appear to have left at all. Louis would guess bathroom but the clunky fan starts up as soon as the light is on and it’s too loud for him not to notice if it’s working, so that can’t be it. He looks around again. “Harry?” he calls out, much quieter this time, confused rather than angry.

Something moves in the kitchen, a few quiet rustles preceding a head of brown hair peeking out from behind the island. It quickly disappears again. Louis walks over slowly, feeling vaguely like he needs to announce his progress. “Harry?” he asks again when he reaches the island. The only answer is another quiet rustle. He takes a few more steps forward.

Harry is curled up in the space where Louis’ rubbish bin used to be before Zayn got sick of banging his head against the island top whenever he wanted to throw something away and moved it. His ears are pressed so close to his head that they’re indistinguishable from his hair and his tail is curled around his folded legs. He’s hugging himself tightly; it doesn’t stop him from shaking. His eyes are wide and unnaturally bright, reflecting whatever light reaches them like mirrors. “You’re angry,” he whispers. “Please don’t be angry. I promise I didn’t take anything, I was good, _promise_.”

Louis feels suddenly sick. He steps back to give them both a little space. Every single horror story about hybrids kept in captivity he’s ever heard on the news comes back rushing to him at once, increasingly unlikely scenarios of what might have happened to Harry, of what memories he must have brought back going through his head. He pictures Ernest and Doris in a strange new house with a strange new man who shouts at them. “Shit,” he says under his breath. The hairs on his arms stand up despite the oppressive heat still permeating the flat. Harry is just staring up at him, a pleading look in his eyes. “I’m not angry,” Louis promises. “I’m sorry.” He curls his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out, even more aware now of Harry’s apparent aversion to being touched. “I’m not angry,” he reiterates as he slides down to the floor so they’re on the same level. “I’m just cranky in the mornings, okay?”

The tiles are cold under against his thighs; the knob of the unit behind him digs into his back. There’s a mug on the island, he notices now, steam still rising from it in wispy tendrils. Harry is wearing his clothes, trackies that only come up to above his ankles and a plain white t-shirt that’s tight around the shoulders. He seems somewhat pacified by the distance between them, but he stays curled up and tense and keeps staring as if he expects to need to run away.

Louis takes a deep breath and leans his head back against the wood. “I have six siblings, five sisters and a brother” he starts, pitching his voice low and talking slowly. “Or, I guess, half-siblings. The youngest ones, they’re twins, two years old, they’re also… hybrids. Like you.”

Harry’s voice, quiet and a little unsteady, startles him. “I hate that word.”

“Me too,” he agrees. “Sounds very… clinical.”

“Sounds like we’re an experiment. A mistake.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not really his place to have an opinion on this and frankly, he isn’t informed enough on the subject to be part of a real discussion. Instead, he asks, ”What _do_ you like to be called?”

Harry watches him for a while before answering, assessing. His tail uncurls from his legs just enough to tap the floor a few times. He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing a little. “My name,” he says flatly. Louis has a hard time not looking away, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “We’re human enough to be called people, don’t you think?” Harry asks. His gaze is unflinching, but his tails curls back around him tightly.

Louis swallows audibly. “Of course. I didn’t--” But he did mean it that way. He nibbles on his lip, tearing away bits of dry skin.

Harry rubs at his upper arms before putting them around his bent legs. He rests his chin on one of his knees. His face softens a little. “I think cats is okay if you know the difference between us and the animals,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. His fingers drum over his shin. “Do you like cats?” he asks suddenly. “The animals,” he clarifies needlessly.

“We used to have one when I was younger. My sisters took care of it, mostly. I don’t think it liked me much.”

One corner of Harry’s lips twitches. For a second his features falls back into a neutral mask. “I wonder why,” he deadpans. Then, like a belated reaction, a smile blooms over his face. It changes him somehow, makes him look younger, softer in a way. Louis can’t even be offended when all he wants is to poke one of his dimples and make it deeper.

“Piss off,” he says because he has to keep up appearances. He’s smiling too, though.

Harry blinks at him slowly a few times. He seems to have relaxed somewhat, ears perked up again and tail not as tight around his legs anymore, but he stays where he is. “Your sisters, then?” he prompts.

“Huh?”

“It felt like you were going somewhere with that story,” Harry explains, raising one eyebrow. Louis huffs a little. If it were anyone else, he’d kick them in the shin for making fun of him. He shifts a little until he finds a more comfortable position to sit in.

“The other set of twins, the older ones, Phoebe and Daisy… Phoebe gets scared easily.”

“Also like me then,” Harry says, just a hint of teasing in his voice. Louis grins.

“You said it, not me,” he teases. “She likes to hide when she’s scared too. Mum and Dad used to argue a lot before they split up; she’d crawl under the bed or curl up in a tub. It was like proper hide-and-seek sometimes.” At the time, he used to think it was the worst thing that could happen. His father had left and now theirs would too and they’d have to go through everything he’d been through, the questions and the guilt and the anger, and he hated that. He tried to overcompensate, to distract them, to replace him; he thought of elaborate pranks and bought Lottie makeup and read twice as long to the twins when he put them to bed. Now he looks back on it almost nostalgically. “Daisy always found her first, of course. But then she’d sit with her and they’d wait for one of us to find them.” He remembers how sometimes it’d take Daisy disappearing for him to realise Phoebe was gone too. In time he learnt to keep an eye on Daisy instead of searching on his own. “Whenever we found them, Phoebe’s hair would be all braided. And whoever found her, me or Mum or one of my other sisters, she’d always ask for a hug.” He looks down at Harry. His tail lies loosely curled around his feet and his shoulders don’t look nearly as tense as before. His eyes are still the brightest green Louis’ ever seen, seemingly even brighter in the dark; that’s going to take some getting used to. “Something tells me you wouldn’t appreciate it if I braided your hair or gave you a hug,” Louis says, “so this is me doing the next best thing. Braiding your hair from a distance, I guess.”

Harry closes his eyes and tilts his head down, but not before Louis catches him smile. “I like being petted,” he mumbles into his own knees. “I just don’t know you. Yet.”

“That’s fair.”

“You have a nice voice,” Harry says, ears twitching wildly. He pulls the front of his shirt up and burrows into it. His next words come out muffled. “And, um. You smell nice, so… This is nice, thank you.”

Louis almost laughs at that. He smells like sweat and morning breath, nothing nice about it; he wonders if it’s different for Harry. “Thank you,” he says instead, a little awkwardly. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I guess you get cold easily?”

Harry looks at him, half of his face still covered. He seems to think that over for a second, then shrugs one shoulder. He sees it as a test, Louis realises, tries to think of answers Louis will find acceptable. He’s not sure what to think of that. “You said, last night, you could turn up the heat. I guess I just got… carried away.”

“Well, we’ll have to work something out because I’m not overly fond of waking up feeling like I’m having a bath with Satan and this is still _my_ flat,” Louis says as he gets up off the floor. He must’ve been there longer than he thought; the air has cooled to a much more pleasant temperature and his skin feels tacky and itchy with old sweat. He wonders how he didn’t notice that before.

“I can wear warmer clothes,” Harry suggests, crawling out of his hiding spot as well. Louis looks at the sofa where he can make out at least three blankets.

“I suppose I can live with it being a little hotter than I’m used to,” he concedes. If he wears his summer clothes and sleeps naked while Harry puts on a coat, maybe they can find a temperature that suits them both. He turns around to suggest this to Harry and then immediately feels like he should look away.

Harry’s stretching, a full-body kind of thing that has him standing on his toes and making a high-pitched mewling sound; his arms are up over his head and his spine is bowed back, long hair falling over his shoulders and tail swishing around. The waistband of Louis’ trackies sits below his hips to make room for his tail, the root of which sits just above his arse. He seems, oddly, entirely unbothered by how much of his body is on display. Clean and rested, he makes a much better picture than last night. He’s a little skinny for someone his height and has a bruise on his side that peeks out from under the tee he’s wearing, but other than that he seems physically perfectly fine. He has a faint smile on his face and his nose scrunches up a little when he throws his head back. His eyes are closed. There’s something serene but intimate about the picture he makes.

Louis clears his throat. “Well, I suppose we should get you some clothes, then,” he says.

*

“Pizza or Chinese?” Louis asks, brandishing the takeaway menus in his hands.

Harry stops picking at his nails. He just stares for a few seconds just like every time Louis asks him a question; it’s like every choice he makes is somehow crucial, like he always has to weigh his options, like he has to pick his words carefully. “Do you eat anything other than takeaway and cereal?” he finally says, having apparently decided Louis won’t clock him for that. Louis himself isn’t so sure.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asks, a tad defensively. Harry opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it. He looks back down at his nails and shrugs one shoulder. “What?” Louis insists. He’s only barely resisting the urge to reach over and poke or tickle Harry until he actually says what he wanted to.

Harry looks back up and purses his lips for a second. His eyes are on something over Louis’ shoulder when he speaks. “It’s just that, well, isn’t it cheaper to cook? I’m sure it’s healthier too.” He phrases it as a question, an uncertainty; the way his voice stays steady tells Louis he’s not really asking.

Louis huffs. He puts the menus down and thumbs over the edge of them, strangely embarrassed. “I can’t cook, okay? Nothing substantial anyway.” He chances a look at Harry, finds him suppressing a smile. There’s a ghost of a dimple in his cheek.

“It’s not that hard,” he says carefully. He’s holding back, Louis can tell from the glint in his eye and the way he seems to need to physically swallow the words before they come out.

“What and you’re Jamie Oliver with a tail?” Harry’s tail comes up to curl over one of his arms. One corner of his lips rises in a lopsided smile. Louis narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. “No way you can cook,” he says, not sure why the idea of Harry pottering around a kitchen, chopping vegetables and checking on pots seems so strange to him. Harry just shrugs again and picks at a scratch in the otherwise smooth surface of the countertop. Louis raps his knuckles in front of him, almost touching but not quite. “Fine, then,” he says. “You can cook tomorrow. Tonight we’re ordering pizza.”

*

Louis is never more grateful that he doesn’t have to spend half his day in an office than when Zayn, Liam and Niall all show up at his door in the middle of an afternoon completely unannounced because they’ve decided a pub crawl is in order. The fact that this is a regular enough occurrence might be worrying.

Louis is already dressed in what could pass as an appropriate enough outfit for a pub, having only just return from a grocery run that Harry sent him on (with a list this time, because he forgot half the things Harry asked for last time). He doesn’t think much of it when he invites them all in for a beer the way he usually does when this happens. In the commotion of three people talking over each other as they take off their shoes and jackets and find somewhere to put them, he completely forgets that there is someone else he should probably ask before letting a relatively small but very loud crowd into the flat.

“Why the fuck is it so hot in here?” Zayn asks, looking at the jacket he hung up and then taking off his jumper too. “And why does it smell like cat?”

“Oh, right I forgot to tell you,” Liam replies.

“Lou has a new flatmate,” Niall fills in. “Liam found this stray kitten and brought him here.”

Zayn turns to Louis and raises his eyebrows. “You traded me for a _cat_?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Technically, he’s more human than cat,” he says, ducking in time to avoid Liam cuffing him on the head. “And I didn’t _trade_ you. _You_ were a leech; Harry cooks. I _upgraded_.”

He lets them settle down on the sofa and turn the TV on while he heads to the kitchen for a few cans of beer. The groceries he brought are still on the counter, pasta and vegetables and spices spilling out of plastic bags that Harry squinted at when he took them. Harry was supposed to put everything away and make dinner. He’s obviously given up on that because he’s not in the kitchen anymore. In fact, Louis has no idea where he is.

He looks around himself, catching sight of the rubbish bin now back in its place at the island. He remembers how Harry hid from him there that first morning, scared of Louis’ anger and shouting. He looks up at Zayn and Liam batting at each other in one corner of the sofa and Niall laughing in the other. “Fuck,” he says under his breath.

He finds Harry in the bathroom, folded up under the sink. The light is off and the door is just cracked open. Harry’s eyes shine in the dark, reflecting seemingly all the light that comes in. Louis crouches in front of him and leans back against the wall.

“So it turns out I didn’t think this through,” he says. His chest feels tight with anxiety at the memories of the last time he was in this position barely more than two weeks ago. He doesn’t mind calming Harry down, thinks it’s porbably the least he can do considering he’s the reason they keep ending up in this position; he just wishes he could do it in a way that comes more naturally to him than staying a safe distance away and just talking. He wishes he could reach out, touch Harry’s shoulder, pet his hair, do things that he’s always done in similar situations before. “They’re my friends, you know. Liam’s there,” he finally says as he leans a little forward so they’re almost breathing the same air; it’s a compromise.

Harry looks at him, unblinking as always. It’s different this time from the last, Louis thinks; he’s hiding and he’s scared, but not of Louis. He doesn’t back away when Louis holds his hand out tentatively. “They’re loud,” he says, then grabs Louis’ hand. His grip is tight and his palm is sweaty and the tips of his fingers are cold; the touch still sends a shock through Louis’ body. He holds back just as tightly; it’s a start.

“We’ll leave immediately. They don’t have to stay.”

Harry holds his hand tighter, eyes going wide at the words. “Leave?” he repeats, the word barely a pitiful whine.

“We’re going out,” Louis explains. He hears the shaky breath Harry sucks in. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ll try to be quiet. You’ll be fine on your own, H, won’t you?” he asks, the nickname slipping out without his conscious decision. Harry looks at the door, cringes when Niall’s booming laughter reaches his ears. His hand in Louis’ is shaking a little. He turns back to Louis and takes a deep breath before nodding slowly. Louis smiles. “There we go. You can stay in my room if you don’t like that they were in yours,” he offers.

Harry tilts his head, considering. In the dark, Louis can’t really tell, but he thinks he feels Harry’s tail brushing up over his calf. “I think I’ll just sit here for now,” Harry says quietly.

“Okay,” Louis agrees. His legs are starting to burn from staying in the same uncomfortable position for so long, but he waits until Harry lets go of his hand. He closes the door behind himself. It feels like one of his palms is still burning from Harry’s touch when he rubs his hands together. He was on a deadline last week, only took the time to text Zayn that he couldn’t go out; tonight, there’s alcohol out there with his name on it and cute boys to snog on the dancefloor (and a kitten to check up on when he comes back).

*

Harry is nowhere to be found when Louis emerges from his room. He’s been working for hours, going through hundreds of lines of clunky, inelegant code some monkey with two years of IT courses put together, trying to find whatever mistake made it glitch and instead running into thousands of little things that needed adjusting to make it run smoothly. At some point his eyes started prickling so bad he had to find his glasses and put them on. He rubs at his eyes under them as he pads over to the kitchen. Harry’s mug is already in the sink when he puts his in. The rest of the dishes are washed, dried and put away, flat surfaces wiped down and leftovers from breakfast gone. The floor’s spotless, obviously recently cleaned.

Louis checks the digital clock on the stove. It’s even later than he thought, long past time for lunch that he didn’t have and well into the time when Harry usually likes to curl up on the sofa or make a little blanket nest by the window and have a nap, so he tries to be quiet as he checks the living area and the hallway. He’s about to give up and call out when something catches his eye.

The balcony door is open. He never goes out there, sits instead with his legs between the bars at the bottom of his floor-to-ceiling window that he suspects was once upon a time supposed to be a door to another balcony and watches the cars pass if he can’t be bothered to go out or if he needs a smoke, a break when he doesn’t have to do anything, when he can let himself not think. Harry has his own thing too; he’s taken to doing all their laundry, likes to sit the whole cycle out in the bathroom, watch the colours spin or sit on the machine and read. He says he finds it soothing. Louis doesn’t, but he won’t judge (even if he sometimes walks into the bathroom and finds Harry on the floor looking very much like a grumpy kitten and can’t help but laugh).

He tiptoes to the balcony and pokes his head through the door. It’s not as much of a mess as he remembers leaving it. The things he dumped there when he moved in and decided he needed storage room more than he needed a balcony – old sofa cushions his mum sent _just in case_ , parts of IKEA furniture he disassembled to bring over from Liam’s and never figured out how to put back together, an ironing board he bought but never used and a million other bits and bobs – are all pushed into one corner leaving enough space for a few throw pillows and a dirty blanket that Harry is currently sprawled on.

He’s lying on his back, arms stretched out above his head and legs bent at odd angles; his tail curls loosely around on of his thighs and the tee he’s wearing (Louis’ though he now has his own, Louis notes) is riding up, leaving the bottom of his pale belly on display. He looks comfortable in a strange way, settled more than just physically, calm in a way Louis doesn’t think he’s seen before. There’s a slight swell to his tummy now and his thighs look thicker; his arms have some actual definition, coiled muscles where he used to be little more than skin and bones. He complains about Louis’ eating habits, but Louis rather likes how they’ve affected him.

“You’re staring,” Harry says without opening his eyes.

Louis feels heat creeping up to his cheeks. “Didn’t mean to wake you up,” he apologises instead of replying.

Harry lets him get away with it. “I know,” he says instead, voice a little rough. “You were very quiet. But I hear better than you think. Besides, I’d smell you.”

Louis tries not to feel self-conscious about that. “Aren’t you cold?” he asks.

“A little,” Harry confesses. “But it’s sunny and I wanted a nap.”

“A nap in the sun. You really are a cat,” Louis teases. It’s actually kind of cute, but he won’t admit that out loud.

Harry’s ears twitch a little and he scrunches up his nose. He stretches out, arms and legs reaching way off the blankets, socked toes almost brushing Louis’ ankles. He sighs a little as he sinks back into the pillows. “Naps in the sun are nice,” he says belatedly. His eyes open just a crack, eyelashes fluttering a few times as he gets used to the light. “You can always join me.”

Louis wants his first reaction to be saying that he knows that, that he doesn’t need an invitation to do something on his own balcony. Instead, it’s to grab one of the pillows from under Harry’s endless legs and sit on it, far enough that they don’t need to be touching, close enough that they could. There’s not much of a view to look at, a busy street four storeys beneath and another building across the street, the tree in front of it still bare, but the sun warms his skin and Harry’s steady breathing is only interspersed with quiet hums here and there and somehow that’s enough to make him smile.

Harry’s feet come to rest on his thigh, warm even through the fuzzy socks he’s wearing. Louis will never understand how someone can get cold so easily when they always run so hot. He hesitates for a beat, then two, then wraps a hand around one of Harry’s ankles. He’s still not entirely used to the casual touches that Harry’s starting to allow more and more, a brush of hands when he passes Louis his mug, a knee pressed to Louis’ thigh when they’re sitting on the sofa together, a tickle of his tail in passing, a hand on Louis’ hip when they run into each other at the bathroom door. Every point of contact between them feels like a burn on Louis’ skin for a long time afterwards, tingling and warm and ever-present. He runs his thumb over the bone lightly. Harry’s leg jumps.

“Tickles,” he complains and doesn’t move away. His eyes are on Louis now, oddly translucent with how the sun is hitting them; they look like stained glass. His eyelashes look light, nearly blonde and his skin is so pale it almost glows. He’s smiling, an actual genuine smile that makes him look years younger and infinitely soft. Louis’ seen it before, but he likes that it’s coming out more often now. He tickles over Harry’s toes to see if it makes him smile even wider.

A cat yowls somewhere down the street. Louis pinches Harry’s big toe and grins. “A cousin of yours?” he teases.

Harry wiggles his toes and digs them into Louis’ thigh. “Fuck off,” he says with no heat. Even when he turns to look out at the street through the rusty railing, Louis can see a dimple in his cheek and the edge of a smile that puts it there.

*

“Did you like it?” Harry asks, heels drumming against the counter he’s sitting on. “I’ve never made it like that before.”

Louis finishes loading up the dishwasher. He feels so stuffed full he’s actually surprised he can bend over enough to put in the plates. The curry Harry made smelled strange when he first took his plate, but it tasted divine and Louis ended up taking a second helping and then maybe sneaking a few more spoonfuls while putting it away. Those might have been a mistake.

“It was delicious,” he says honestly, “never would’ve guessed you were trying out a new recipe.” He pokes at the buttons automatically to start the dishwasher. His mum tried to teach him about all the different programs when she visited for the first time, but Louis’ interest in technology doesn’t extend to kitchen appliances and he tends to stick to the basic settings; it’s worked for him so far. When he looks up Harry is grinning happily, dangling his feet faster than before and leaning forward as if expecting something. “You like being praised, don’t you?” Louis asks. His fingers itch to do something and he takes a dishcloth to wipe down the stove; it doesn’t help much.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Harry replies. His smile doesn’t dim and one of his ears flops around in a strange wave. Unthinkingly, Louis reaches out to touch it. He stops with the tips of his fingers just barely brushing Harry’s hair. He’s tense for a moment, suddenly overly aware of every single part of his body.

“May I?” he asks. Harry closes his eyes and arches his back so he can headbutt Louis’ wrist and rub his face into it happily. Louis lets his fingers tangle in Harry’s hair, combs it out of his face and tugs a little on the curls at the back. The strands that twist between his fingers are silky, their touch almost a caress in itself. The hair on Harry’s ears is even softer, tickling over Louis’ palm when he scratches behind them. “You’re an excellent cook, darling,” he says. Harry’s nose scrunches up as he lets out a happy rumble and tilts his head to the side to be petted some more.

 

_possession, n. – the state of having, owning, or controlling something; something that is owned or possessed_

 

Louis is still at least half-asleep when he sets the mugs on the island in front of him. He stares at them dumbly. One is blue, a little wider than the standard with a dark ring on the cream inside that won’t go away no matter how much Louis washes it. The other is light green and tall, chipped a little on the rim; Harry cut his lip on it the first time he drank from it and he hasn’t let it go since. It’s funny because Louis used to think of both those mugs as his. Now one is Harry’s. It’s not even a question anymore. Harry’s tea preference, a lot of milk and a cube of sugar, comes to him as naturally as his own. He scratches at the back of his neck. He doesn’t remember how that happened.

“Morning,” Harry greets, reaching for his mug, then hissing when he touches it. He looks down at his hand and pouts. He’s still adorably rumpled and sleepy, cheeks tinted pink and hair flying everywhere. He rubs at his eyes and plops down on a stool. From there it doesn’t take much before he’s folding his arms in front of himself and putting his head down on them.

Louis laughs at him, only feeling a little bad when Harry grumbles indistinguishably. He moves both mugs out of the way (by the handle, like a normal person) so he can reach over the island and tangle his fingers in Harry’s hair. It’s frizzy and a knotted at the back, but it still feels soft to the touch; Louis works out the knots easily until he can comb through it in a single smooth move. He feels a few curls twirl around his fingers and tugs on them without really thinking. Harry whines a little and turns his head even further down as if offering himself. For some reason, Louis finds it hard to breathe right then.

His fingers brush over the collar around Harry’s neck. He’s used to seeing it now, the worn and cracked brown leather that interrupts the smooth cream of Harry’s skin, the metal diamond that sits in the dip of his neck with a cursive _H_ engraved into it. He doesn’t know what possesses him to trace the edge of it with a thumb.

“Why do you wear it?” he asks.

Harry freezes, muscles suddenly tense as if getting ready to jump, run, get away. It takes him a few breaths to answer. “I, um, like it, I guess,” he says, words slow and measured and stilted. Louis thinks one of these days the curiosity that he’s positively vibrating with whenever Harry shares something personal will get to be too hard to ignore and he’ll finally ask one of the million questions going through his head. For now, he goes back to playing with Harry’s hair until he’s relaxed and pliant again.

*

The flat is a warzone when he comes back. Of three jackets he had hung up on a hanger in the corner, only one is still there and the shoes that were stacked haphazardly underneath are strewn over the floor all the way to the living area. The sofa Harry sleeps on is pushed to the wall, the coffee table on the other side of the room; between them, in a mess of what appear to be completely random things from all over the flat, Louis can make out a few bundled up pairs of his socks, some of Harry’s underwear, a couple of books and a charger. One of Harry’s blankets, the one he likes best, the one he wraps himself in when he’s cold and picks at the corner of when he’s nervous, has somehow ended up muddy and dusty and spread out over the floor all the way in front of Louis’ room.

There’s a small mountain of things in front of the open window, Harry’s blankets and sheets and pillows, most of his clothes, and what appears to be every single thing Louis was planning on washing in the near future, from the tee he sleeps in to the trackies he wore two weeks ago to the shirt he went out in once and then kept forgetting to add to the laundry. Harry’s mug is on the windowsill and next to it a dog-eared book. Harry himself is kneeling on the floor nearby, a half-full laundry basket next to him. His head is tilted down and ears back, tail restless behind him. He’s looking at Louis through his long eyelashes, unblinking. He looks embarrassed, cheeks red and lips bitten.

“Harry,” Louis starts and then doesn’t know how to continue. He should probably be angry about the mess, but mostly he’s very confused and wants to laugh hysterically because he can’t stop imagining what his mum would say if she saw this. She always complains about how messy he is; this is definitely worse than anything he’s ever let her see and a huge part of him wants to take a photo just to show it to her and say, _see, there are people who are worse than me_.

“Look, I know, okay,” Harry says quickly. “I’m cleaning it up, just… Sorry, yeah?” He’s obviously nervous and Louis knows, he _knows_ he has to be careful with Harry still, but he can’t help himself. He starts laughing, several aborted little bursts of giggles bubbling out of him before he’s full-on holding his tummy and covering his mouth and laughing until there are tears in his eyes. He can see Harry shifting away from him first, then relaxing and finally pouting. “Are you quite done?” he asks. Louis swallows down the giggles that his tone sets off.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, hiccupping once at the end. He takes a deep breath to calm down. “So, you were saying…”

Harry bites at his lip as colour returns to his cheeks. “I panicked, okay. I woke up and you were gone and that has literally never happened before and I panicked.”

“I had a meeting!” Louis argues, finding the entire situation increasingly hilarious. “And you wake up at the weirdest times! Sometimes you’re up at six, other times I can’t get you out of bed before noon! How was I supposed to know which one it would be today?”

“I _know_ , alright,” Harry says flatly. He’s even redder now, the blush spreading down his neck. His tail is swishing around quickly, raising even more dust and Louis has an unbearable urge to reach out and catch it, to still it and maybe to pet it a bit. He shakes his head at himself.

“So all this,” he makes a sweeping gesture with his hand to encompass the entire flat and the bomb that went off in it, “was a tantrum because you thought I… what, left?”

Harry shifts around on his knees a little. One of his ears twitches and he tugs at it as if to punish it. “It wasn’t a tantrum,” he mumbles, though the way he can’t look at Louis says otherwise.

“You’re cleaning this up,” Louis informs him.

Harry nods emphatically. “I am! I was going to do it sooner, but…” He looks sideways at the nest he’s made of his bedding and Louis’ clothes and bites his lip. He closes his eyes before continuing. “I was comfortable,” he says, and then, quieter, “It smelled like you.”

Sometimes Harry says these things that make Louis stop short. Sometimes Louis wonders what goes through Harry’s head. “You’re still cleaning this up,” he says; it doesn’t sound nearly as commanding as the previous time.

*

It starts while Rick and Glenn are covering themselves in zombie guts. It’s been a long day; that morning Louis overslept and had to practically run to a meeting he wasn’t entirely prepared for and in the afternoon Harry came back from the market wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf after some kids followed him around and called him names and now it’s two in the morning and neither of them can sleep so they’re watching a marathon of the first series of _The Walking Dead_. Harry is sprawled out over the sofa, lying on his belly with his feet propped up on the armrest and the tip of his tail trailing over the floor as it sways, curling to one side then the other. One of his hands is heavy on Louis’ shin and his head is pillowed on Louis’ thigh; his ear is squished against Louis’ tummy, tickles when it twitches over the skin left exposed by how Louis’ tank has ridden up. Louis doesn’t really mind. He’s so drained he’s not even sure he’s awake anymore, only vaguely aware of the plot they’re supposed to be following. He has one hand tangled in Harry’s hair, scratching gently at the base of his ear, the other on his back. He’s running it absently up and down Harry’s spine, doesn’t even notice at first that Harry’s chest is vibrating a little. It gets stronger though and by the time Daryl is walking angrily out of the woods there’s a low rumbling sound coming from Louis’ lap. He looks down at Harry. Harry doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s doing anything, his one open eye still on the screen and his lips curved in a half-smile. He looks entirely peaceful.

Louis pauses with his hand between Harry’s shoulderblades. The vibrations under his palm get a little weaker but don’t stop. He stares down at how his hand shakes with the movement, forgetting all about zombies for the moment. “Harry, are you…” A quiet chuckle bubbles out of him before he can stop it. “Are you _purring_?”

Harry tenses against him, then squeaks and shoves his face into Louis’ thigh. “Shut _up_ ,” he whines. As soon as he stops talking the rumbling is back and he’s vibrating under Louis’ hand. Louis laughs delightedly. He’s never heard an adult purr, thinks he vaguely remembers reading somewhere that they only do it during sex or around life partners which should definitely make this at least a little bit awkward, but he’s too endeared by how embarrassed Harry seems to be and how he still can’t control it.

“We’re watching people getting quite literally _eaten alive_ because we’ve both had such a shit day that neither of us can sleep, and you’re _purring_!?” he asks, voice getting increasingly more high-pitched. He ignores how Harry tries to shake his hand off and pets over his ear instead to make him purr louder, laughing when it actually works. “Is this a weird sex thing for you? Blood and vore or something like that?” he teases, mostly to make Harry hiss and burrow into his hip some more.

“That’s a myth,” Harry complains, words barely distinguishable. “The sex thing. Adults can purr too, they just… don’t.”

Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s back pointedly. The rumbly sound gets lost somewhere between his hip and the sofa cushions, absorbed before he can hear it, but the vibrations are still there. He can’t stop grinning. It’s like the sound Harry is making seeps into his bones and replaces the exhaustion and the negativity with something light and buoyant. He rubs a circle into Harry’s back and tugs on his hair. “Hey now,” he says, “no need to be embarrassed.”

Harry huffs a laugh that breaks up his purring before finally rolling over on his back and looking up at Louis. Even in the dim bluish light of the TV, his face is red. “I don’t— I mean, I haven’t… with, like…” He sighs, obviously frustrated with himself, and puts both hands over his face. He’s still purring, quieter and less noticeable, but definitely there.

Louis puts a hand on his chest to feel it. “It’s okay,” he says. Harry’s reactions are making him grin so wide his cheeks hurt and he hasn’t felt this warm and light, this much like he’s filled up with a fizzy drink and just waiting to explode in a long time. He rubs his thumb over the dip of Harry’s throat, under the pendant of his collar. “You can purr all you want, for whatever reason. I like it.” The rumbling of Harry’s chest gets louder at that.

For a while that’s all there is, just Harry’s face hidden behind his hands, his skin painted an artificial blue and his chest vibrating with the deep sound of his purrs. Louis forgets he’s supposed to be watching a show, forgets what it’s about or why he’s awake; it’s like the whole world narrows down to the soothing sound until Louis can almost drift off to it, the smile still on his face now dimmed a little to something more tame, natural, comfortable. He leans his head back against the backrest and closes his eyes.

Harry’s purring stops a breath before the words come. “It feels safe here,” he whispers. “You feel safe.” His voice is still muffled behind his hands and the last word fades back into a low rumble; it sounds like a confession that Louis wasn’t supposed to hear so he pretends he didn’t. He lets the words settle somewhere under his ribs though; he plans to keep them for a long time to come.

*

“Louis? Louis, are you awake?”

Louis mumbles and shrugs the enormous hand off his shoulder. Instinctively, he reaches for blankets he no longer uses to pull over his head. When that fails, he turns to the other side and buries his face in the pillow.

“Lou, please.”

Something about that, the fact that he’s clear-headed enough to recognise Harry’s voice or how it breaks, the nickname or the plea, _something_ makes him pay attention. He rubs at his eyes and turns on his back. “H?” he asks, lights still dancing in front of his eyes from how hard he pressed the heels of his palms into them.

“I’m sorry,” Harry rushes to say first. “I know… I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I can’t—“ He breaks off on a sob. That finally makes Louis jolt awake. He thinks he’s woken up to each of his siblings crawling into his bed over a nightmare at least once; he knows that tone.

He spreads his arms out, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. Harry looks hesitant for about a second before he breaks and climbs into bed, snuggling close immediately. “Nightmare?” Louis asks. Harry nods into his shoulder. He’s unnaturally still, so tense he feels like a statue in Louis’ arms. Louis brushes his lips over his hairline. Neither of Harry’s ears comes up to tickle his face. “It’s alright, love,” he whispers, rubbing Harry’s back and holding him close. “Just a dream, yeah? You’re here with me, remember?” Harry only makes another choked up sound. A shiver runs through him before he seems to regain control of himself and tenses again. He squirms a little lower, tucks his face into Louis’ chest and sniffs. Louis’ scent soothes him, Louis remembers. As does his voice. “Do you want to tel me about it?” he asks carefully first.

Harry is still and silent for a long time. Even his arms around Louis’ waist don’t try to squeeze harder or pull closer. His fingertips are cold where they press under Louis’ shoulderblades. Finally, he turns his head a bit to the side, pushes his nose under Louis’ arm and takes a deep breath. He whines a little, a shaky sound that sends goosebumps spreading over Louis’ skin.

“No?” Louis checks. Harry shakes his head and presses his face in as much as he can until he’s almost pushed Louis’ arm out of the way. If he weren’t so obviously upset, Louis would find it funny. As is, he just moves his arm a little out of the way and lets Harry press his face into his armpit and scent him. He gets his hand in Harry’s hair and starts petting him gently. “Want me to talk, yeah?” he asks. When the only response is a terse nod, he continues. “Have I ever told you about the time I walked in on Liam and Zayn making out?” That makes Harry tilt his head up and look at him. He relaxes a fraction as he frowns. It’s a good thing Louis has a lot of stories to share.

*

Harry’s ears are down, tail coiled around the leg of the chair that he slides closer to Louis. He’s nervous. Some part of Louis finds that pleasing. It’s not that he finds Harry’s discomfort particularly appealing, it’s just that he likes the difference between the way Harry treats him and others and especially likes the fact that Harry seems to be seeking comfort with him. Granted, he’s lived with Louis for quite a while now so Louis has a bit of an advantage, but still.

“It’s just my friends,” he reminds.

“I know.”

“You’ve met Liam before. And you’ve spoken to Niall. So really, it’s just Zayn.”

“I _know_ ,” Harry repeats for what has to be the twelfth time since they arrived at the pub “I’m fine.”.

Louis looks down between them pointedly. Harry’s tail has now migrated to curl around Louis’ forearm, covering most of his tattoos. “Why is your tail around my arm then?”

Harry blushes bright red and grabs his tail, pulling it away from Louis. The soft hairs tickle as they drag over Louis’ skin. “Because I hate you and it’s trying to do me a favour and strangle you,” Harry replies through his teeth.

“Lou, you’re here on time, that’s definitely a surprise,” Liam interrupts before Louis can come up with something.

“You could say Harry is a good influence,” Louis says sweetly. “Or you could also say he’s paranoid about being late anywhere and dragged me out of the flat half an hour early, whichever you like.” Under the table, Harry kicks him in the shin. Above it, he waves demurely at Liam.

“Hi,” he says, not offering a hand. Liam, thankfully, just waves back and sits opposite them. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” Liam agrees. The awkward pause that follows stretches for what feels like years though it must be only mere seconds. Louis starts tapping his foot on the floor. He can’t tell if it’s Harry’s nerves rubbing off on him or if he’s starting to feel awkward too. _It’s just your friends_ , he tries telling himself. It only makes everything worse. “You look… better,” Liam says.

Before he can stop himself, Louis snorts. “What, without banana peels in his hair and a fortress of blankets around him?” he asks. A moment of complete silence follows his words, even the speakers quieting as the song ends. Then Harry elbows him in the ribs and they all start laughing. At least it breaks the ice, Louis figures. It’s how Niall finds them, yelling for them all the way from the door, his accent unmistakable. This time, Harry stands up. Louis rises with him so he can lean in and whisper, “Sorry.” He feels the tip of Harry’s tail sliding between his fingers and around his wrist.

“It’s okay,” Harry replies, equally quietly. “I’m less nervous when I’m spending half my energy on being annoyed with you.”

*

“Is there a way to prove that I have qualifications even if I don’t have a physical diploma with me?” Harry asks out of the blue.

Louis frowns at the eggs that are just getting firm. “What?”

“I did my A-levels already, don’t fancy taking them again. And I have a certification in geriatric nursing,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “I just don’t have physical proof of it.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise, Louis thinks. There’s no reason for him to assume Harry’s _not_ educated; he can obviously read and enjoys it a lot, he’s quite well-spoken and more informed than Louis on certain subjects. Still, Louis finds himself whirling around with his spatula raised as a weapon. “You what now?”

Harry looks up from the laptop. “I’m looking for jobs,” he says, as if that’s what Louis asked. “It’s been well over two months and I’m still not paying my part of the rent. Did you think I forgot?”

Actually, Louis is the one who forgot. He remembers setting up ground rules that first night Harry showed up at his door. He’s pretty sure they’ve bent if not broken them all. Somehow, he finds he doesn’t really mind.

“I’ll pay you back for what I owe, you know, you don’t have to worry about that,” Harry adds, apparently misinterpreting Louis’ stunned silence.

The thing is, Harry is the best flatmate Louis’ ever had. Occasional outbursts of anger or panic or crippling anxiety aside, he’s easy to get along with; he cleans and he cooks, for the both of them even. And somewhere along the line, he became a friend. His presence in Louis’ life is worth more than his share of rent. Louis wouldn’t have picked this place if he hadn’t been sure he could afford it, and he can. The additional food, what little more he pays for keeping the flat warmer than usual, Harry’s clothes and another phone, all together it’s put a dent in Louis’ savings, but not one he can’t handle.

The smell of burnt eggs makes him jump and turn off the stove. He grabs two plates fresh out of the dishwasher and spoons the eggs onto them without really seeing what he’s doing. He puts one plate in font of Harry. The laptop is pushed to the side, still open and showing a page with job ads. It’s actually very telling that Harry would start looking on his own, that he’d remember when Louis didn’t, but for some reason this doesn’t sit right with Louis. He shakes his head to clear it; Harry’s looking at his plate with a frown, poking the eggs with the fork and turning bits of them over.

“They’re edible,” Louis assures. “I think.” His own plate is still sitting by the sink. “Listen,” he says, putting a hand on Harry’s forearm. Harry looks at him, nose twitching a little. “Forget about that, yeah? You don’t have to pay me anything. If you’re only looking for a job so you can give _me_ money, then… don’t.” He’s not sure why it’s so important to him that Harry only do this if it’s for himself; there’s a tightness somewhere low in his belly, something like guilt and maybe a little like fear.

“Oh, no, I want to work,” Harry says with a smile. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’ll be nice to feel less like I owe you for every breath I take, but I think it’ll also, like, give me something to do?” He spears his eggs and brings them to his face to sniff at them. “Like, you know. A purpose. I’d like to have a life outside of here, too.” He shrugs as if to say _fuck it_ and takes a bite of his breakfast. He must deem it acceptable because he takes another. “Besides,” he adds after a second, “I’m going to need my own money for when I move out, right?”

Louis watches him eat, oddly detached. He hears the words coming out of Harry’s mouth, but they don’t sound right to him. He’s so used to seeing Harry eating in his kitchen, making tea for him every morning, finding him napping in odd places, that it completely slipped his mind Harry was only there temporarily. He swallows thickly.

“Right, yeah,” he agrees. “I get it. Independence and all that, of course.”

“Yeah, well. I never really had that so it’ll be good to try it out, I guess.”

Louis crosses his arms and leans sideways against the island. The flat is as warm as it’s been every day since Harry moved in, neater than before Harry took residence there; there’s traces of Harry’s presence everywhere from a pile of blankets in the corner to neatly folded bedding in the cupboard to a chipped green mug in the sink that Louis no longer thinks of as his so he doesn’t understand why Harry suddenly feels so distant, so much like a stranger, as if Louis doesn’t know him inside and out, at least the parts that matter. He knows who Harry is, knows that he’s happiest swaddled in blankets and a couple of Louis’ dirty tees, knows that his nose scrunches up when he’s happy and his tail gets restless when he’s nervous, knows that he likes his ears scratched and that he can purr so loudly he drowns out the TV, knows that he was on the street and let someone take him in, that he was scared but didn’t forget how to trust; he knows so many things. And yet, for everything he knows, there’s twice more that he doesn’t.

The world rearranges itself around him. It’s a positive thing, he realises. It’s a dozen new conversations, a hundred little discoveries he still gets to make, a thousand questions he hasn’t asked yet. That’s not a bad thing.

“Lou?” Harry asks around a mouthful of eggs.

“There’s databases for that now,” Louis says, a belated answer to a question Harry asked. “They can check if you graduated, reissue your diploma. I think. We can ask Liam.”

“Oh, okay, good. I was _not_ looking forward to studying.”

Louis smiles a little. He tries to imagine Harry at 16, frazzled and stressed over his tests, maybe a pair of glasses on his nose, maybe some curls falling in his face. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you were a bad student,” he says.

“Oh, I wasn’t,” Harry agrees happily. “Well, maybe I would’ve been if we’d actually had classes, but we studied at home.”

“We?” Louis repeats. Diametrically opposite ideas occur to him at once – Harry surrounded by half a dozen of his own siblings, similar round faces and dimpled cheeks and curly hair, not unlike his own household back at home, and Harry in a dungeon somewhere, locked in a cage and surrounded a bunch of similarly miserable creatures (which makes no sense, he realises, because it’s unlikely he’d ever see a book in that case, let alone be able to read one).

Harry takes a deep breath. He eyes his eggs for a second, then pushes them away. “So, I was a pet,” he says carefully.

Louis tries very hard not to show any sort of reaction. Inside, he’s buzzing with questions, the hows and the whys and the whos and a million others, but he thinks he manages a mostly neutral hum as his only response. He’d figured as much, between the collar and the lack of discomfort at being watched, between his apparent fear of being abandoned and the way he’s obviously attached to Louis more than anyone else he now knows, but to have his suspicions confirmed is still somewhat jarring. He remembers, a little illogically perhaps, his father calling him drunk one night to tell him about how his mum’s new husband wasn’t good for anything, how any children of his would do well to be kept in cages like the animals they really are; the anger that rises in him is sudden and hard to control.

“I can see you thinking horrible things,” Harry interrupts his train of thought. “And it wasn’t like that.” He stands up and starts to clean up his breakfast dishes. “I was bought when I was a baby, so I don’t remember anything worthy of a reality TV special. The lady who had me was very nice. There were quite a few of us that she kept after her husband died.” He puts the dirty dishes in the sink and turns around to face Louis again. “It was like growing up with a very rich if somewhat traditional grandmother. We were always clean and well-fed and taken care of,” he says with a note of nostalgia seeping into his voice. “When she got sick, I took care of her. It really wasn’t that bad. I doubt she really thought about the implications of _owning_ us. She was just lonely.”

He’s not lying. He’s a terrible liar and Louis knows when he’s lying and this isn’t it. Still, his shoulders hurt from how tense he is. There’s a _but_ to this story and they’ve come up to it and though he wants to know he’s not sure he’s ready to hear. Harry’s tail wraps around his ankle, a strangely soothing warmth. “And how did you end up behind a dumpster?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I didn’t, Liam is exaggerating. I was at a back door of a restaurant.”

 _As if that’s much better_ , Louis wants to say. Instead, he asks, “Okay, how did you end up at a back door of a restaurant?”

Harry stares blankly for a few seconds, looking through him more than at him probably. He blinks quickly a few times and turns his head away; his eyelashes are wet. “Well, as old people do, she died,” he says tightly. “Her sons took over her estate. And us. They didn’t really care enough to maintain it properly and they definitely didn’t care enough to watch us. They didn’t want pets, they’d yell at us if we asked for something, wouldn’t remember to get enough food for us…” He pauses, takes a few breaths and looks back up at Louis. Louis hasn’t seen him this distant in a long time. “I don’t think they’re bad people. They never hit us or hurt us intentionally. They just could’ve done so much more and didn’t care enough to try,” he says, a rough edge to his voice, like an underlying emotion he’s trying to suppress. “We took care of ourselves and the estate for a while. Eventually, it just got to be too much. So I left.”

Louis is not sure what to do. It’s obvious Harry is purposefully maintaining a distance between them, however little of it he can in the tiny kitchen, so Louis stays on his side. It can’t be easy to tell the story, even as vague as Harry seems intent on keeping it, and he doesn’t want to make it any harder. Besides, he doesn’t think Harry wants to hear a _sorry_ or be comforted; he sounds angry rather than upset, bitter more than sad about how it ended. Louis can understand that. He just doesn’t know how to react to it. He feels oddly like something is missing, like there _should_ be a boy curled up in his arms and a fluffy ear pressed against his cheek and a nose sniffing at his neck. With a sudden clarity, he realises that it’s more for his comfort than Harry’s.

Harry wipes at his eyes. “I wasn’t on the street for very long before Liam found me, you know,” he says. “I mostly stayed in shelters. Sometimes people offered me food or money if I slept in their bed and sometimes I said yes. A few of them wanted more and I said no. It really wasn’t that bad.”

Louis shakes his head. He can’t tell if Harry truly believes that or if he needs to convince himself of it, but he wants to tear his hair out either way. Nobody deserves to be treated that way, neglected to the point of being forced out of the only home they knew, living in and out of shelters with no space or privacy, trading their time and comfort for basic necessities. He wonders, if Liam hadn’t walked by when he had, if he hadn’t had a friend with some extra space, where Harry would be now. To think that he almost rejected Harry at the door makes him sick. It’s not his story and he doesn’t get to decide the villains and he won’t be the one to carry whatever pain or anger it brought, but he still wishes, fiercely, that he could rewrite it.

“I promise you,” Harry says firmly, “there are people out there who have it far worse than I ever did.”

“Doesn’t mean you had it well,” Louis argues. “Doesn’t mean it was right.”

“I had it well for a very long time.” Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry waves him off. “You might not see it that way, but you weren’t there. I was _happy_.” He bites his lip, looking uncertian about something for a second. One of his ears flops back and forth a few times and the hold of his tail on Louis’ ankle tightens. Finally, he says, “And I do again. There are many out there who can’t say the same.” He shrugs, adds, “I guess there had to be some balance.”

 

_analysis, n. – detailed examination of the elements or structure of something_

 

With three minutes to go, Louis sends his e-mail. It’s still the biggest adrenaline rush he knows, just barely meeting the deadline. He shuts his laptop with a flourish and deposits it on the floor, pushing it under the bed for good measure. He doesn’t want to see it for at least another week (he’ll last about twelve hours).

“Done?” Harry asks sleepily.

“Finally.”

Harry gives a weak _woo hoo_ in response and a few thumps of his tail. He doesn’t seem inclined to get up from where he’s sprawled out sideways over Louis’ bed so Louis shrugs and lies down with his head on Harry’s chest. He’s so tired he doesn’t think he can even feel his fingers anymore and his eyes burn even after he takes off his glasses and closes them. His mind on the other hand is working a million miles a minute, lines of code writing themselves out in his head, tweaks to old programs and ideas about new ones mixing together.

Over the cacophony of disorganised thoughts, he notices a slight vibration under his head. He turns on his side so he’s looking up at Harry’s face, relaxed and slack in near-sleep. He presses his ear to Harry’s chest, listens to the quiet purr interspersed with a steady heartbeat. “Thank you,” he remembers to say.

“For what?” Harry mumbles. For anyone else it might be a genuine question; Harry, however, is just fishing. Louis pokes at his cheek where a dimple is coming out of hiding.

“For the tea,” he says flatly. “And the food.”

“And?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “And for dealing with me when I was in a foul mood,” he replies dutifully.

Harry smiles. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles, words bleeding together with exhaustion. One of his hands comes to rest on Louis’ waist, his fingers spanning all the way from Louis’ hip to his ribs. Louis wraps a curl around his finger and tugs on it.

He closes his eyes before saying, “And I’m sorry I snapped at you.” The purring in his ear gets louder. He’s drifting off already, several days of stress and exhaustion catching up on him. The calm of Harry’s presence settles down into his very core; the string of code still plays behind his eyelids, letters dancing a little where he thinks of all the changes he’s made, but it’s not enough to overpower the soothing vibrations of Harry’s deep voice. He thumbs over the dip of Harry’s throat absently. His collar is gone now, disappeared at some point when Louis was too out of it to notice; he only realised that morning and hasn’t had the chance to ask what happened. That’s what he means to say; what comes out is, “Do you miss her? Your… owner?”

Harry doesn’t speak for so long, Louis almost thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then, “Sometimes.”

“You can have it fixed,” Louis offers. “I’m sure Zayn knows someone who deals with leather.”

This time Harry’s reply comes a lot faster. “No, it’s alright. I don’t need it anymore.”

Louis wants the burst of joy he feels at that to be purely about Harry; he wants to celebrate Harry moving forward and closing the door on that whole part of his life, embracing the freedom Louis hopes he knows he has now. The truth is that there is a small but increasingly vocal part of him that thinks Harry should never wear a collar that isn’t his.

*

“What will old people think of their nurse having tattoos?”

Louis tugs on the braid he’s making to pull Harry’s head back until they can look at each other. “You don’t have tattoos and I’m not _that_ old,” he says. Harry giggles, his whole face lighting up.

“I think I want to get a tattoo,” he says slowly, almost carefully, as if Louis might try to stop him. He looks as Louis’ arm. “I’ve always liked tattoos. And I feel kind of… naked without my collar.”

Louis tugs on his braid again before righting his head and continuing to play with his hair. “You don’t seem to be particularly opposed to being naked,” he says as neutrally as he can. He noticed from the start that Harry seemed quite comfortable with his nudity, not at all concerned about Louis seeing him in various stages of undress. It’s never been a problem until recently; warmer weather has made Harry wear a lot less clothes and Louis’ been finding it increasingly difficult to look away from him. He imagines Harry with random tattoos littering his arms and torso, peeking out underneath his shirts teasingly. He can definitely see that. “Any idea what you want?” he asks.

Harry hums. “Maybe,” he says cryptically. He holds his phone up in Louis’ face; it’s open to an e-mail app. “They called me in for an interview. That’s a good sign, right?”

Louis skims the e-mail; it doesn’t say so explicitly, but reading between the lines, he gets the idea that Harry’s already got the job as long as he doesn’t entirely fuck up the interview. And he won’t. “Hey, that’s great!” he says honestly, leaning over the edge of the sofa to kiss the top of Harry’s head. “Well done, babe.” Almost immediately, Harry starts purring. Louis can see a blush creeping up his neck; he grins into Harry’s hair. Of all the things that go through his head in that moment, from how proud he is of Harry, to how lucky those people are to have Harry taking care of them, to how much he’s genuinely looking forward to hearing a thousand different stories about inane, mundane things from Harry at the end of his day, one sticks out – he wants to pull Harry’s head back, lean over and kiss him. It’s not as new or as surprising of an urge as it maybe should be.

He doesn’t do it. There are things he’d need to say first, questions he’d have to ask, all of them potentially starting conversations too serious for a Wednesday afternoon and Sponge Bob reruns and Harry sitting on the floor in front of him and asking for his hair to be braided. He nuzzles into the back of Harry’s head, presses another kiss there. Harry purrs a little louder.

*

At first Louis can’t figure out why he’s awake. It’s dark outside, the only light in the room coming from the screen of his laptop, still turned on and quietly playing an episode of _Humans_. He must have drifted off at some point; the last thing he remembers is talking to Harry about the implications of treating synths cruelly and admiring Colin Morgan’s face. Harry is not in his bed anymore.

Louis leans over and checks the time in the corner of his screen. It’s a little past three in the morning, not even two whole hours since the last time he checked. He pauses the episode. Even without the dialogue, the flat doesn’t fall silent. There’s water rushing through the pipes in the wall opposite him and the subtle hum of electric appliances and the distant rumble of traffic coming through the window he’s taken to leaving open overnight. But he can hear it better now.

The sofa in the living area that Harry sleeps on (most of the time) creaks rhythmically. It’s not loud or disturbing, not even with the door open as it almost always is these days, just a steady shuffle and a few whines of the springs here and there to punctuate it. It’s a lot like the sounds coming from Harry himself, the harsh breaths and muffled mewls.

It could be nothing. It could be a nightmare; Harry hasn’t had them in a while, but it could be. It could be that Louis is still sleeping and this is all just a very vivid dream. It could be anything. But it’s not and somewhere deep down Louis just knows, _feels_ it in the pit of his belly and the back of his throat and the tingling of his skin. He lies back and stares at the ceiling. There’s a crack somewhere up there, he knows, deep enough to be visible even in the dark and if he can just focus enough, he’ll find it and then he can stare at it until he falls back asleep. Becuase that’s what he should do, sleep. Ignore this is happening. Pretend his life isn’t suddenly a romantic comedy.

He can’t.

He tries closing his eyes and counting; he ends up doing it in the rhythm of Harry’s breathing. It’s like now that he’s noticed it, identified it for what it is, he can’t unhear the sounds or unrealise what Harry is doing or even focus on anything else. He can’t unknow that on the other side of the wall, Harry is getting off.

There has to be some kind of unwritten rule about not listening to a flatmate moaning into a pillow in the middle of the night and Louis’ never had a problem following it, not when he lived with one other person and not when he lived with three; it was never this difficult to roll his eyes, turn around and go back to sleep. He’s never felt like the very air was too heavy on top of him, never started to get hard from hearing somebody else, never felt this hot and restless without even doing anything. But then, he’s never had the kind of tension that’s been building between him and Harry with another person and definitely not for this long.

He wipes his hands on the sheets. It’s hard not to listen when Harry is only getting louder. What woke Louis up was hardly more than a few whimpers and an excesive rustle of the sheets; now there’s a sound to follow every breath Harry takes, a bitten-off moan or a shaky whine. He shuts his eyes tightly as if that will help with the images that flood his mind; it only makes everything worse. He imagines Harry getting hard while lying in his arms (and he must have or he wouldn’t have had a good enough reason to leave), imagines how he probably got restless and pushed back against Louis after Louis was already asleep, sees vividly Harry pressing a hand over his mouth when he realises he’s mewling, flushing red and checking if Louis noticed, sneaking out with his fingers already undoing the laces on his trackies; it can’t have been that long ago if Louis can still hear him now. If Louis woke up only a bit earlier, he wonders if they’d be doing this together.

His hand creeps over his bare leg, fingers tracing under the edge of his boxers. He’s hard already, cock outlined clearly above his left thigh. He bites his lip. His heart is beating fast and his breathing is shallow; the tee he’s wearing sticks to his chest from the sweat. He can hear Harry moving, faster now. He wraps his fingers around the base of his cock the next time Harry moans; the sudden pressure sends a jolt of pleasure through him and he can’t help the little gasp that escapes him. For a second, he freezes, afraid Harry’s heard him, afraid of what Harry might think. He listens carefully. Harry doesn’t appear to have noticed anything, too busy for Louis to matter right now. He’s stopped trying to hold back the noises he makes, or at least isn’t capable of doing it anymore; what used to be harsh panting is now a long series of high-pitched _oh_ ’s. The sound is muffled; he must have a hand over his mouth or, Louis realises with a shiver, he might be on his knees with his face hidden in the pillow.

He gives up any pretense of not listening. He’s going to feel guilty about it later, he decides; right now, he needs to do this. He pushes the waistband of his boxers down until it sits under his balls. If he thought Harry could last long enough, he might wait, leave himself exposed and deny himself the touch, just watch until there’s precome pooling on his belly, until he _can’t_ anymore. Harry won’t last though; Louis might have never heard him like this before, but he can tell from the increasingly harsh panting and the increasingly loud moans. He spits in his hand, spreads it over the head and wraps his fingers around himself. The foreskin pulls down as he moves his hand lower slowly, gripping tightly.

He wonders if this is what Harry is doing too, if he’s on his back, legs maybe up and spread, big hand pulling on his cock fast; he wonders if Harry’s even bigger when he’s hard than what he’s glimpsed so far, if he gets wet easily, if he trims. He pauses with his hand around the base, listening. Harry’s whining almost constantly now, voice a little hoarse; the bed squeaks. He might be fingering himself, Louis suddenly realises, a wave of heat washing over him. There’s extra lube in the bathroom behind the mirror, something Harry must have noticed. He might have his legs in the air, one of his hands down between the cheeks of his arse, two or maybe three fingers pumping into him steadily; he might be on his knees, arse up in the air and tail lifted out of the way so he can reach behind himself and push inside; or he might be on his side, looking over his shoulder to see the muscles of his arms bunch and relax as he fucks himself.

Louis watches precome blurt out of the head of his cock, a shiny drop sliding down the shaft and over his fingers. “Shit,” he curses under his breath. He glances at the door; all the lights in the flat are out, as if nobody is awake, as if they’re not both lying in their beds with their eyes wide open. Or maybe Harry isn’t, maybe he doesn’t like to watch, maybe his whole face is already screwed up in pleasure, maybe his lips are slick with spit and swollen from biting, maybe there’s tears clumping his eyelashes together. Louis doesn’t know. He wants to.

He pushes two fingers into his mouth as he starts stroking himself, to keep his noises quiet and to have something inside. Harry’s fingers are longer than his, would reach deeper, would maybe make him choke; he’d like that, he thinks, letting Harry take control. He thinks Harry would let him do the same; he’s always so obedient, so eager to please. Louis can think of quite a few ways he could do that.

He matches the rhythm of his hand to what he can hear of Harry’s movement; it’s a bit too fast a bit too soon, inelegant and sudden with no buildup, but it works. He swipes his thumb over the tip, pressing down roughly into the slit before going back to stroking himself. He wonders how long Harry’s been at this, how much he’s worked himself up.

He wonders what Harry is thinking of.

Harry doesn’t know a lot of people, Louis and his friends, the patients and co-workers he’s only met a handful of times; he never talks about anyone in a way that would imply attraction, not even when he’s mentioning someone he _has_ been with. Louis can’t help but hope that maybe Harry’s touching himself and imagining Louis’ hands instad.

“Fucking hell,” he mumbles to himself, a thrill of pleasure shooting down his spine at the thought. He’s already hurtling towards the edge, arm moving so fast his muscles are starting to burn, and imagining his own name falling from Harry’s lips isn’t helping.

He looks down at himself, every visible inch of skin glistening with sweat and shirt stained under his arms and over his chest. He pictures Harry there with him, kneeling over his thighs and pumping his cock or kissing over his skin while undressing him, Harry’s cheeks hollowing around his cock or a broken sound he might make when he buries himself inside. He chokes on his own spit, drags his teeth over his fingers as he pulls them out, wet and shiny.

On the other side of the wall, everything falls suddenly silent. Louis freezes. For a few moments the only thing he can hear is the wild beating of his own heart. He holds his breath, waits. The next sound that comes from Harry is a deeply gutteral moan, then a whispered curse. He whines, long and high-pitched, as if surprised at himself, and then finally tapers off into a few hicupping whimpers.

Louis palms the head of his cock, listening to Harry’s gasps that don’t stop for a long while. He’d give everything to see him right now, probably exhausted and flushed and splattered with come. He gives himself a few rough strokes until he finishes silently, hand cupped over the head. It’s just an afterthought.

He lies there for what seems like forever, listening to Harry’s breathing slow and even out until it’s too quiet for him to hear. The guilt over what he’s done hasn’t settled in yet when he feels for an old pair of pyjamas that he uses to clean up and discards again. He’s still wound up, unsatisfied, feels like he could easily go another round. He turns to the side and closes his eyes, trying to relax and let the physical exhaustion take him. He’s almost asleep when he hears Harry padding into the bathroom, washing up without turning the light on, and then the mattress dips and there’s a warm body pressed against his.

*

“I think my legs might fall off if I try to move,” Louis complains. He has no idea what possessed him to agree to go for a run with Liam, but he’s definitely regretting it now.

Harry cuddles closer, his arms tight around Louis’ waist and his head fitted against Louis’ shoulder. “So don’t move,” he says. He tangles his legs with Louis’ and nuzzles into his upper arm.

“I’m in your bed,” Louis points out, making no move to actually disentangle himself or get up. He doesn’t really want to; he sleeps best when he’s sleeping next to Harry, even if that usually happens because they’ve drifted off cramped uncomfortably on the sofa while watching something or, less often now, because Harry’s had a nightmare and couldn’t fall back asleep.

“It won’t be the first time,” Harry says, as if reading his thoughts. He doesn’t seem to mind either.

Louis shuffles a little lower so he’s more comfortable; Harry’s face ends up in his neck, his nose pressed to the pulse point. He runs his hands slowly up Harry’s spine, over the back of his neck, and into his hair. Harry’s ear is soft on his cheek where it twitches.

“I’m glad it was you,” Harry mumbles sleepily. “I would’ve been grateful to anyone who took me in, but I’m glad it was you.”

Louis turns his head a little to the side and kisses Harry’s temple. “Me too,” he admits. In the silence of the muted TV and the middle of the night, he can hear Harry’s breathing hitch, as if he expected a different answer. It’s easier like this, he thinks, in the dark when they’re not looking at each other, when the sun doesn’t shine on every twitch of muscle that gives them away, when they’re too tired to stop themselves; it’s easier to say things he means bur fears letting out into the world because it feels less like they need to be examined and tested and picked apart, less like he’s losing them and more like he’s giving them away. He tries not to ruin it, but Harry’s hair, frizzy from the rain from earlier, is in his face, tickling over his nose and it’s not long before he has to scrunch up his entire face to make it stop itching. He blows out a noisy breath to get a few stray strands out of his mouth.

“Hey,” Harry whines, pulling back a bit. The way his eyes reflect the artificial light makes it look like he has no pupils or irises; it still creeps Louis out a bit. “We’re having a moment here and you decide to literally spit in my face!”

“Your hair gets everywhere!” Louis says defensively. “Not really a moment when I need to sneeze, is it now?”

Harry pokes his belly. “Piss off, you love my hair,” he mumbles, then cuddles close again.

 

_process, n. – a continuous action, operation or series of changes; steps taken in order to achieve a particular end_

 

Louis turns the beanie over in his hands. There’s no discernible pattern to the changing colours, they bleed together seamlessly as if the thread itself changes. The wool is soft and fuzzy even though it’s never been worn. There are two earholes at one end and a few missed stitches in random places. “Cute,” he comments, handing it back to Harry. “Bit out of season, but cute.”

“Your face is out of season,” Harry replies, deadpan. He takes the beanie from Louis and puts back in his pocket. “I think it’s perfect,” he declares. “Mildred’s been working very hard on it and her hands shake a lot, so this is an achievement.”

Louis smiles at the fierce protectiveness in Harry’s voice. Sometimes when Harry talks about the residents, he reminds Louis of the way he talks about his siblings. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, ignroing Harry’s glare. “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he says, letting the smoke filter out. “Kudos to her.” He checks his phone for the time. Harry’s break is almost over and if he doesn’t hurry, he might be late to his meeting. “Does it count as bribery, then? Or is it just because you’re her favourite?” he asks.

Harry grins, sharp teeth glinting in the weak sun. His ears twitch. “I’m everybody’s favourite,” he replies. “If you were here, I’d be _your_ favourite. I’m _nice_.”

“You _are_ my favourite,” Louis says, not even thinking about it. He brings the cigarette up to his lips, but Harry takes it from him and puts it out on the wall of the building.

“You know I hate it when you smoke. You stink afterwards.”

“I take that back, I hate you.”

“You’ll thank me when you don’t get lung cancer at 30.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Mum.” He nods at a woman in the same shapeless uniform as the one Harry is wearing who passes them by and waves. She’s pushing a wheelchair ahead of her; the old man in it looks around himself as if lost. Louis feels cold. It has nothing to do with the wind that’s picking up. “Do you like it here?” he asks Harry. He doesn’t know why he’s asking when he knows the answer; Harry doesn’t need to say it in so many words, it’s obvious in the way his whole face lights up when he talks about his day, in how he remembers the little details of every story he hears.

Unsurprisingly, Harry nods. “It feels… It feels good to be doing something for someone else,” he says. “Feels familiar,” he adds, looking away. The garden around them is quite green considering the weather they’ve been having; the grass is neatly trimmed, tree branches cut so they aren’t too low and beds with flowers kept out of the way so there’s enough space. It’s a nice place, feels very peaceful, distanced from the rush of the city around them. Louis can see how someone might want to stay there, but it still makes him uneasy. “Some of them are a bit… difficult, I guess. But they’ve been taking care of others their whole lives, raising children and grandchildren and fighting wars or travelling the world. It’s time somebody took care of them.”

“Styles!” somebody calls from a window.

“Coming!” Harry replies immediately, easily, _happily_. Louis likes seeing him like this, in his element, collected and confident without being cold. He _is_ Louis’ favourite. “Have to go,” he says. He leans in, hand on Louis’ shoulder and tail curling around Louis’ waist as if it’s the most natural thing for them. Then he freezes.

Louis stops breathing. Harry was going to kiss him, he knows. He almost grabs him by the collar and pulls him in, almost closes the distance himself, almost doesn’t let him pull away.

“Right,” Harry says loudly, blushing furiously. His tail uncoils from around Louis’ waist and his ears press down against his head. He bites his lip, eyes darting down to Louis’ mouth. He doesn’t look particularly sorry about what happened. “I’ll see you at home, yeah? Bye!”

Louis watches him leave, smiling when he turns around to wave once again.

*

The flat is spotless. It’s the first thing Louis notices when he walks through the door, before he’s even managed to drop his bags. The floor is so clean he could eat off it; he almost feels guilty walking over it even after he toes off his shoes. He leaves his bag in the hallway, too tired to unpack tonight. The living area has been tidied, even his bookshelves rearranged from haphazard and uneven rows to what appear to be thematic clusters. There’s a potted cactus on the windowsill that Louis doesn’t remember buying. He looks at Harry who is sitting on the coffee table, legs crossed and a blanket over his shoulders; he’s holding a bowl of cereal and has milk moustache.

“No tantrum this time?” Louis teases. The mere sight of Harry, comfortable and cuddly in the living room settles an unease he hasn't been able to shake ever since he left. It's not that he's uncomfortable at his mum's, it's just that, well, it's his mum's. He hasn't felt like he belongs there in a while, years of distance and the changes he wasn't there to be a part of making it feel increasingly less like his. This flat is what's his now, what's _home_ , and Harry has become an essential part of that.

“Well, I was about to have one, but then you called and told me you were on the way back,” Harry replies gamely. There’s a faint blush rising to his cheeks though and his tail swishes behind him; Louis gets a feeling he might have actually had a hard time. He steps closer and pets the top of Harry’s head. Harry seems to melt under his touch, eyes slipping shut and shoulders relaxing as he tilts his head every which way so Louis can pet him.

“How was your week?” Louis asks. He tried to text Harry as often as he could, but it turned out to be a lot harder than he expected, an endless stream of grandparents and cousins and old family friends filtering through his childhood home over the last week, people he hadn’t seen in years coming to say hello; he hadn’t realised it’d been that long since his last visit until he was there and everyone was treating it as a national holiday. He smiles, remembering Phoebe and Daisy running into him at the door and almost knocking him over. It’s nice to be away from the wild frenzy and endless cacophony of the place, to feel independent and adult enough to be living alone, but he still misses it. It’s how he grew up and it’s his family and he loves that.

Harry shrugs one shoulder without opening his eyes. “Alright,” he replies. “Work. Housework sometimes. Went out with Liam and Niall a few nights. Zayn slept over once. You know, the usual.” His ears twitch as if calling for Louis fingers; Louis scratches at the bases of them, follows the strong muscles all the way to the tips. “It was strange being here without you,” Harry admits.

Louis tugs on his hair to tilt his head back. He waits until Harry blinks slowly at him to say, “It’s your flat as much as mine now, isn’t it?”

One corner of Harry’s lips lifts, a single dimple coming out of hiding. “I guess,” he concedes. It sounds like there’s something he’s not saying, like a jibe Louis is not quite getting. “Still strange without you though,” he adds.

“I’ll take you with me next time,” Louis promises. He stretches out as he heads to the kitchen for some tea. He takes both his and Harry’s mug out without even thinking about it.

“There’s some lasagna left in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Harry says, following close behind him. Louis would tease him about acting like a puppy more than a cat, but he doesn’t want to discourage it.

“Maybe later,” he replies. He puts the kettle on and jumps up on the counter to wait. It’s a bad habit he’s picked up from Harry, sitting on surfaces that weren’t meant for that. He finds it endearing; his mum didn’t.

“So, how was _your_ week?” Harry asks, standing close. The fingers he runs over Louis’ thigh are gentle, just barely there. His tail curls around Louis’ ankle, the tip of it tickling over the sole of his foot.

“Hectic,” Louis replies. "Mum is a bit of a mess because Fizzy is talking about moving out as well. I think at some point she got so used to having a full house she forgot it wouldn't be like that forever."

"Well she'll have Ernest and Doris for a while yet, no? At least she can count on them when her other children abandon her," Harry teases. Louis flicks him on the nose to watch him pout.

"I suppose if anyone would understand her _obviously_ exaggerated reaction, it would be you," he says with a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. You mock me now, but I'll see you when _your_ kids are leaving."

"Please,” Louis replies haughtily, “I’ll be the coolest.” He swings his legs, feet drumming against the unit, and pokes at Harry’s belly. There’s a stain of what appears to be ketchup on the tee he’s wearing; it’s one of Louis’, the one he slept in the night before he took off and then left behind on purpose, clean enough to last and not so clean that it doesn’t smell like him. After a week of almost constantly having something to do or someone to pay attention to and then abruptly switching to being cooped up in a train and later the Tube, there’s a nervous energy thrumming under his skin, a restlessness that makes his fingers itch for something to do. He’d kill for a cigarette, but he promised Harry he’d seriously try to quit this time. He walks his fingers over the exposed skin of Harry’s belly where Louis’ shirt isn’t quite long enough for him.

He realises what is happening seconds before he feels Harry’s breath on his lips. He curls his fingers in Harry’s tee. The anticipation is so thick in the air he can almost taste it when he opens his mouth. His heart stutters. Harry’s fingers sink into his thigh, nose nudging his.

The kettle startles them both with its sudden whistle. Louis had forgotten about it; he moves to hop off just as Harry jolts forward. Their heads bump painfully hard. “Fucking hell,” Louis curses, leaning back and rubbing at his forehead. “What is your head made of?”

“Mine!?” Harry scoffs. “You have steel plates instead of a skull,” he complains, laughing and poking at his forehead as if looking for damage. He stays close though, close enough that their elbows bump together and Louis’ thighs frame his hips. He licks his lips. “Is this awkward?” he asks.

Louis snorts. “A bit,” he concedes. He reaches behind himself blindly and turns kettle off. It takes a few moments to quiet down. Harry is staring at him, unblinking as usual. His hands are heavy on Louis’ thighs. He glances down at Louis’ lips.

“I’ve never kissed…”

“A boy?” Louis ventures. He leans a little forward until he can feel the heat of Harry’s body.

“No,” Harry replies easily. “A full-on human.”

Louis bursts out laughing. “I have completed my transformation, I am now a full-on human,” he mocks. Harry pinches his hip. The tension between them is broken now, the build-up and anticipation dissipating like smoke. It’s not a bad thing, Louis thinks, makes it easier to reach out and mould his hand to Harry’s cheek, feel the slight rasp of stubble there; the touch isn’t charged, just pleasant, comfortable. “Is it different?”

“I am obviously an expert on this subject as I’ve conducted a long series of experiments where I’ve snogged and shagged every humanoid species in existence in order to see how they compare to cat hybrids,” Harry says, completely deadpan.

Louis gasps, mock-offended. “Is that all I am to you? An experiment?” he asks as dramatically as he can, knowing the exaggeration will make Harry’s nose scrunch up fondly. Harry rolls his eyes, obviously biting back a grin. He should look ridiculous like this, a blanket hanging off of one of his shoulders and a trace of milk still above his upper lip on one side; Louis’ never been more endeared in his life.

“Lou?”

“Hmm?” Louis hims, thumb tracing over Harry’s cheekbone.

“Shut up,” Harry says and leans in to kiss him.

*

“This is a bit on the nose even for you,” Harry says as soon as he sees the loopy green letters that spell out _Purrfection_ above the door.

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want to spend a couple of hours drinking hot cocoa and petting cats?”

Harry scoffs. “Of course not.” He grabs Louis’ hand tightly and marches them into the café as if determined to prove himself.

The inside of the café is warm and dimly lit, the walls panneled with light wood. There are no regular chairs, only forest green armchairs around simple square tables and similar booths lining the wall opposite the door. The music is a simple instrumental, quiet and soothing. It’s not a big place, not even twice as big as Louis’ flat, but even without looking closesly Louis can see at least a dozen cats, lounging around, perched on tables and walking over furniture and sprawled in people’s laps. He looks sideways at Harry who seems to be frozen on the spot.

“H?” he asks, suppressing giggles.

Harry’s eyes are wide open, his ears perked and tail swaying slowly around him and brushing over Louis’ legs and back. He looks like he should be in a Disney movey, a cartoon prince head to toe with his shiny hair, falling down to his shoulders in loose waves, and regal stance and lips pink from Louis’ kisses and a sparkle in his eye.”I’ve changed my mind. This is heaven,” he whispers.

Louis resists the urge to pump his fist in the air. “I _knew_ you’d like it.” He puts his hand low on Harry’s back, feels the muscles there tense and release as Harry’s tail moves, and guides him towards a booth in the back. There are already two cats there, an orange one sitting on the corner of the table, watching them approach with piercing blue eyes, and one curled up in the corner, little more than a ball of grey fluff. Harry scoots up to it, petting gently over its head. It makes a quiet noise, eyes opening only long enough to look at Harry’s face; it stretches out, turning to reveal its soft belly. Harry’s petting it before he’s even properly sat down. Louis sits next to him, feeling distinctly judged by the cat on their table. He turns to Harry instead.

Harry’s leaning over, as if to scent the cat next to him. He bops it on the nose and snickers when it tries to bite him. Its paws come up to touch his cheeks then fall back down as soon as Harry’s hand is back on its belly. It starts purring quietly. “What, no joke about a long lost cousin or something?” Harry asks as he sits up. Their shoulders and elbows brush together, thighs pressing against each other. Harry’s tail sneaks over the booth, curling around Louis’ waist and resting on his lap almost possessively.

“Bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Louis replies belatedly. Harry stares at him for a few seconds before he bursts out laughing.

“Why do all our friends think you’re the funny one?” he bemoans. Louis elbows him.

Their server is a girl around their age, maybe a little younger, fake cat ears perched on top of her head. “Good evening,” she greets politely. “Welcome to _Purrfection_. Would you like a menu?”

“I don’t think we need one, do we?” Louis replies, putting his arm around Harry’s shoulders and tapping his chest to get his attention. “Two large hot cocoas?”

Harry leans into him easily, fitting against his side naturally as if he isn’t too big for that. He brushes his lips over Louis’ cheekbone. “Ordering for me now, are you? Didn’t realise we were on that level yet,” he teases, just loud enough for Louis to hear. The hand that isn’t busy petting a cat comes to rest above Louis’ knee.

Louis feels his cheeks heat up. He swallows thickly. “Did you want something else?” He feels Harry’s smile against his neck when Harry rests his head on his shoulder.

“No, that’s alright.”

Louis turns to the waitress. “Then, I guess that’s what we’re having.”

“Coming right up,” she replies cheerfully before skipping off. Louis supposes a lot more people would enjoy their jobs if they spent their work hours surrounded by the soothing sounds of purring cats and people. He brings his hand to Harry’s face, brushes the hair out of and scratches behind his ear. The cat on their table hasn’t move an inch.

“I think our table companion doesn’t like me,” Louis says. Harry grins into his neck and blindly extends his arm palm up towards the other cat. It looks down, then pads over slowly to rub its head in Harry’s hand. Louis watches, fascinated. He reaches out, runs his hand over the cat’s side. It lets him, but it doesn’t look particularly happy about it. “What am I doing wrong?” he asks as the cat settles down next to Harry’s arm, its head resting on the newly healed eagle tattoo there.

Harry laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ll communicate with them telepathically to let them know that you’re nice.” He noses over the side of Louis’ neck, sniffing behind his ear and placing a gentle kiss at the pulse point before extricating himself. “I think you’re scaring them off,” he says seriously, looking fondly at the cat using his arm as a pillow. “You’re a bit prickly on the outside.”

“Hey,” Louis drawls. “I am not _prickly_.”

Harry gives his knee a gentle squeeze. “Just a little. You’re like… a grumpy little lion.They want to play with you, but they’re not sure if they’re allowed to.” Louis can’t tell if that’s a compliment. He runs his hand down Harry’s back.

“Alright,” he says. “What do I do?”

“What you did with me.”

“And what did I do with you?”

“Respect,” Harry says easily, like this is something people just come out with in a café while waiting for their order to arrive. Louis’ breath hitches. Harry’s not even looking at him, leaning over to nuzzle the cat resting on his arm, and he still feels like Harry is seeing right through him. He kisses Harry’s shoulder and leaves his face pressed into the muscles of Harry’s back, feeling inexplicably vulnerable. “It’s true,” Harry says, words rumbling in his chest and through Louis’ entire body. “When Liam found me he… _insisted_ I go with him, eat, change. I know he meant well, but what you did, letting me do things my way, that helped more.” He doesn’t seem to be aware of how his words are affecting Louis, how they travel down his spine and fill his lungs like air and settle in his belly like a good meal. He closes his eyes and just breathes for a few moments, needs to take a moment to recover. And then Harry makes it easy for him. ”Or we can get a cat. It’ll make you smell more like a cat which will make you more appealing,” he says.

Louis muffles a laugh against his shoulderblade. “I already smell like a cat,” he mumbles. “I smell like you.”

Harry turns around to sniff at his hair. “Kind of, yeah.”

Without warning, Louis feels a pair of tiny paws on his thigh. He almost jumps in surprise. He tilts his head down to look at his lap. A black kitten climbs into his lap, rubs its face agains his belly and then settles in. He reaches down slowly and pets it. It’s still young, feels fragile under his hand. He scratches at the top of its head gently.

“See?” Harry whispers. “Just let them come to you.”

“Maybe they’re all just jealous because they know they’ll never be my favourite,” Louis muses. He rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, continuing to absently stroke the kitten in his lap. Harry leans in and brushes their noses together.

“Good,” he says, breath ghosting over Louis’ lips. “I quite like having that title.”

“It’s all yours, kitten,” Louis replies unthinkingly. A low purr rumbles in Harry’s chest.

“I like it when you call me that,” he says just as their waitress clears her throat. Louis pulls back, feeling a little hot.

*

Harry shifts a little. His ears are pulled back a little, the touch of his hands to Louis’ knees so light it’s barely there. He bites his lip. “Will you tell me what to do?” he asks, not looking up from Louis’ lap. He’s never hesitated like this. Louis brushes the hair out of his face and frowns at him, confused.

“You did perfectly fine last time,” he assures.

“That’s not--” Harry interrupts, then stops. He shakes his head. His hands slide up Louis’ thighs and push them apart, a lot less timid now. He looks up and swallows audibly. “I want you to tell me what to do,” he says calmly. “Please,” he adds. Louis traces his ear, root to tip, until it perks up and flutters a little. He licks his lips.

He knows what Harry is asking for, even if he’s not sure Harry understands it himself. It wouldn’t be new for Louis, dominating someone during sex; it’s different with everyone, but he knows what he’s doing. Still, they should probably talk about it first, set some rules, safewords, get all the boring stuff out of the way. He runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, enjoys how Harry goes easily when his head is tilted back. It’s not a huge shock he’d ask for this. Louis looks into his eyes; he doesn’t want to be roughed up, just guided. Maybe they can work this out without killing the mood after all.

“If you don’t want to do something, you just don’t do it, alright? We stop the moment you say so,” Louis says clearly. “And we’re talking about this later,” he adds seriously.

Harry tilts his head questioningly. His ears twitch, the soft hairs tickling Louis’ hand. “Okay,” he agrees after a moment’s thought. He tilts his chin up, asking for a kiss. Louis brushes their lips together, but doesn’t kiss him. He leans back and spreads his legs. He catches Harry looking down again.

“Stand up,” he says. The request must come as a surprise to Harry because it takes him a few seconds to react. He scrambles to his feet, leaning on Louis’ thighs to pull himself up. He stands a little awkwardly, as if unsure how to without instruction. Louis waits. A part of him wants to prolong this, see how long he can keep Harry without feedback before he gets impatient and starts squirming, get him uncomfortable enough that he makes a mistake just to see how he will react. He won’t because there are better ways to find out, ways that don’t have the potential to cause more harm than good, but the urge is still there, the underlying curiosity about what makes Harry tick and how he reacts to being truly taken apart. “Undress,” he says.

He half-expects Harry to make a show of it, to tease, almost hopes for it. Instead, Harry is quick and efficient, pulls his shirt over his head and steps out of his pajama bottoms, doesn’t hesitate to drop his pants. He stands, naked now, with his arms by his sides and his head slightly bowed. Somehow, being put on display like this seems to calm him. His shoulders relax. Louis takes a moment to take him in. Harry’s tall, broad-shouldered, defined, both bigger and stronger than Louis himself, yet everything about him screams of youth and tenderness, from the springy curls that he’s recently had cut so they just barely brush his shoulders, to the small collection of seemingly random tattoos that he’s started to amass all over his body, to the slight slouch he almost always stands in. His tail taps the floor.

“Impatient?” Louis asks.

Harry opens his mouth, pauses, watches him. Assessing, Louis knows, remembers from a time when they didn’t know each other nearly this well. “No,” he finally says. He’s lying. Louis smirks. He traces every inch of skin before him slowly, from the long column of his neck, marred with a single red line where he nicked himself while shaving that morning, over the smooth chest and down to his soft belly. He pauses and licks his lips. Harry is already hard, cock standing up thick and pink between his legs. Louis can feel the subtle change, the way his breath gets a little shorter, his chest a little tighter, his mouth a little wetter. He swallows thickly. Though Harry stays still throughout, his tail swishes restlessly behind him. Louis looks down to where it catches on the clothes crumpled on the floor.

“You’re not going to leave that there, are you?” he asks unthinkingly. “Fold your clothes and put them away.” The order comes seemingly on its own; he doesn’t really care where Harry’s clothes end up and it’s certainly not a sexual request, but it still feels entirely natural to ask this of him. Harry’s breath hitches and he turns around immediately, quickly gathering his things and folding them over the coffee table. They end up in a haphazard pile that threatens to fall apart at the slightest touch. Louis is too busy watching the play of muscle in Harry’s back to pay much attention. The soft brown hair that leads down to his tail over a few vertabrae is standing up; Louis’ never seen it like that before. When Harry bends over to push his now folded clothes into the far corner of the table, his tail lifts up and curls a little to the side, leaving him completely exposed. Louis’ mouth goes suddenly dry. A shiver of arousal runs through him; he palms himself through his jeans, cock twitching as it starts to harden. His fingers itch with the need to reach out and touch, grab onto Harry’s soft hips and pull him back so he can spread him properly, eat him out until he’s mewling and crying and can’t breathe.

Harry stands up and turns around. His cheeks are pink and his temples shiny with sweat. His cock is flushed darker than before. He swallows, hands clenching into fists at his sides. His ears pull back a little. Louis presses the heel of his palm down against himself.

“Good,” he says, simple praise that he probably wouldn’t give out in a similar situation where he has more to go on than instinct. Even just that is enough to make Harry’s ears perk up and cock twitch agains this belly; he blushes a deeper pink that makes his eyes stand out. Louis rubs his hand over himself. “Kneel.”

Harry falls to his knees gracefully. Where he is usually quite clumsy for a cat, this seems to come naturally to him. Even now that he has to look up at Louis, his head stays bowed down. He rests his hands not how Louis expects him to, on his thighs, but down on the floor.

Louis sits a little closer to the edge of the sofa. He brushes his toes over Harry’s knee, giving him a few moments to get used to the new position. Then he rests his bare feet on Harry’s thighs. Harry doesn’t even flinch. “How long can you stay like this? On your knees, not moving.”

It takes Harry less time than before to decide on a reaction. “How long do you want me to stay like this?” he asks. Louis would think it a challenge, but the way Harry says it sounds entirely genuine. One day he wants to break Harry down until he can’t afford to weigh his words carefully anymore, until his first instinct is to just _speak_.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Then… I don’t know.”

It seems to unsettle Harry somewhat that he doesn’t have an answer. Louis makes a mental note not to ask him things he probably doesn’t know; he doesn’t want to upset Harry or break him out of whatever peace he finds in following instructions when he’s not sure that’s what he wants. He digs his toes into Harry’s thighs. “That’s alright,” he says. “I don’t want you to lie about this.”

Harry shakes his head quickly. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Once again, even the simplest validation makes Harry relax. Louis’ first instinct is to take it away, withhold it until Harry’s earned it properly, until he’s _begging_ ; his second instinct is to shower him with it. He runs his foot up Harry’s thigh until his toes press into Harry’s hip. Harry’s tail twists forward, curling around his leg; the soft hair tickles over his exposed ankle before the tip settles almost playfully into the folds of his jeans. Harry pouts down at it, looking almost offended that a part of him, no matter how singular and out of his control, would disobey. Louis has to put a hand over his mouth to suppress the giggle that nearly escapes. He brushes his toes over Harry’s belly as he moves his foot, running it over the inside of Harry’s thigh. Harry is kneeling with his legs slightly spread, a less comfortable though more casual position than Louis intended him to take. He taps his foot on Harry’s knee. “Knees together,” he says. Then, more gently, adds, “And hands behind your back.” Harry obeys without a second thought.

Louis’ mind kicks suddenly into overdrive. There are a million things he can think of that he wants to do to Harry, keep him there waiting while he goes about his day or hold his head in place to fuck his mouth, fuck him on the floor so there’s carpet burn on his back when he has to change in front of his co-workers tomorrow or leave him hanging and unsatisfied just to toy with him a little; he wants all of that and more, and at the end of it he wants to take Harry’s hand and help him up, walk him to their bed and call him good between kisses as he drifts off. He’s not ready to push too hard, uncomfortable with guessing where Harry’s boundaries lie, but the heat still simmers under his skin. He rubs his palm over the hard line of his cock, watching Harry’s eyes follow the movement. He’s starting to sweat.

“Do you like this?” he asks. “Being told what to do, I mean.”

Harry looks up at him through his lashes. One corner of his lips quirks up in a smirk, but all he says is, “Yes.”

“Why?”

That gives Harry pause. He looks down at himself and licks his lips, thinking over his answer. “I don’t know,” he finally replies, a quiet mumble that Louis thinks is as much for him as it is for Harry himself. He remembers to bring this up some other time.

“What do you think we should do now, hm?” he asks instead. “You’re pretty and you do as you’re told, but I don’t think that’s doing quite as much for me as it is for you.” He looks pointedly down to where Harry’s cock is shiny wet at the tip. Harry doesn’t need to know that he’s not far off either.

Harry licks his lips and leans forward a bit, almost like he’s not aware that he’s doing it. The muscles in his arms tense as if he’s about to reach out; he catches himself and sits back. “I can suck you off,” he offers instead of acting on it. Obedience seems to come even easier to him than Louis assumed. Naturally, Louis has to challenge that.

“I don’t think so,” he says. He can tell from Harry’s face that this isn’t the reaction he expected. He smirks. “I think, since I got to have a look at you, it’s only fair that you have the same opportunity in return.”

Harry frowns, tail tightening around Louis’ leg. “I don’t--”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Louis interrupts. “Unless you’re about to say some variation of _no_ to this, stay quiet.” He lets the words hang in the air, giving Harry enough time to react. All Harry does is straighten his back and close his mouth. He still seems confused about what Louis is doing, but he doesn’t say anything. “Good boy, ” Louis praises.

He keeps his eyes on Harry’s as he runs a hand over his chest, pausing to tweak one of his nipples. He watches Harry’s mouth part on a sigh; he hasn’t figured it out yet. Louis wraps his fingers around his cock as best as he can, giving himself a squeeze when he pinches the nipple between his fingers and twists. The way his back arches off the sofa is only slightly exaggerated. He thinks about taking off his shirt, making it easier to touch himself, but there’s something appealing about staying clothed when Harry is not. The flat is already hot and the tension between is making it worse; by the time Louis is done, he’ll have sweat staining under his arms and maybe even his chest. He thinks Harry will probably like that.

He pushes his shirt up, letting it bunch above his belly. Harry’s eyes focus on the newly revealed skin immediately, trailing down along with Louis’ hand. He gets it then, when Louis undoes the button of his jeans and slowly unzips. He swallows audibly. His tail uncoils from Louis’ leg and swishes back, shaking the coffee table with how hard it knocks into it. He looks up, nostrils flaring as he tries to keep his breathing under control.

“Lou,” he whispers. He might as well be begging.

Louis tsks and shakes his head. “Quiet,” he reminds. The muscles in Harry’s arms bulge as he tenses; when he purses his lips it seems to take more out of him than Louis’ previous commands. Louis smiles approvingly.

He moves his feet back to the floor and spreads his legs, taking away the last point of physical contact between them. It’s not the most comfortable of positions to be doing this in, but it’s worth it for the look on Harry’s face when he realises it’s all he’s getting. Louis pushes the waistband of his jeans down as far as he can, enough that he’ll be able to get most of his cock out, not enough for anything more. For now that will do.

Getting a hand on himself through nothing but his boxers feels surprisingly good after being confined by jeans for so long and the gasp he lets out this time is entirely real. He keeps his grip loose, sticks to slow strokes, nothing fancy. He doesn’t want to move too fast; he likes that Harry is more turned on than him even if he’s the one who gets to touch. He runs his hand over his belly. Harry’s eyes follow. He’s struggling to stay entirely still, straining forward while trying to maintain his balance. His tail taps over the floor and the coffee table behind him without rhythm. It’s a reliable tell and one Louis’ learnt to read well by now. He smirks and shifts lower on the sofa.

He slides a hand up his chest and under his shirt. His skin is burning hot to the touch and damp with sweat and his fingers get tangled in his chest hair, pulling a little when he moves them. He thumbs over a nipple, biting his lip to keep himself from making too much noise when his nail catches on it. His eyes threaten to flutter shut; he keeps them open so he can watch Harry.

Harry is breathing so hard his chest is rising and falling visibly; there’s sweat beading along his hairline and his lip is bitten red. His eyes are glued to Louis’ chest, flitting between where he’s pinching one nipple and where the other is perked up, obvious even under his tee. He fucks his hips up and forward, cock twitching and precome blurting at the tip when Louis inadvertently twists too hard and moans loudly. “Lou,” he whines, something like a low growl rising in his throat.

Louis flattens his hand over his chest. He can feel his heart beating fast underneath. “You’re talking _and_ you’re moving,” he says, a little breathless and strained. Harry’s ears twitch and his tail curls over the carpet left and right; he falls back to sit on his feet with a whimper and hangs his head, as if scolded. Louis tightens his hold on himself; the cotton of his boxers sticks to the head of his cock with precome. He licks his lips twice quickly. His mouth feels dry. He strokes down his cock slowly. He doesn’t have much space to manoeuvre, can only focus on the top half; he twists his hand, making the wet cotton drag over the tip. He groans, runs his thumb over the head too, pressing into the slit purpusefully. He can practically feel Harry watching. When he looks up, Harry’s eyes are wide open and his lips are parted; he seems to be unaware of the spit gathering on the bottom one. Louis feels a twist somewhere low in his belly. He squeezes around the head of his cock. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. He shoves his boxers down until his cock is resting exposed and dark against his belly, the head smearing sticky precome over it. Harry’s nostrils flare as he sniffs the air. He remembers to lick his lips. He’s leaking so much there’s droplets of wetness in the thick bush of pubic hair at the base of his cock. “Harry?” Louis says, almost regretting breaking him out of his trance. Harry’s head snaps up. “Touch yourself.”

For a moment, it’s like Harry doesn’t understand the words. Then obvious relief washes over him, his shoulders relaxing and his hands coming to rest on his knees. He’s still looking at Louis’ cock. He licks his lips and leans forward before catching himself. One of his hands runs up and over the inside of his thigh before stopping. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks up.

Louis considers not letting him speak. He knows what Harry is going to ask and watching him struggle without any further instruction is likely a good way to tell just how out of it he is and frankly just plain fun. He lets Harry squirm for a while longer, then says, “You may ask now.”

Harry has to clear his throat twice before he manages to get any words out. “What, um… What do I do?” he asks, voice deep and rough. He hasn’t even been silent that long; Louis can’t wait to do this properly.

He thinks about that for a second. He intended to guide Harry verbally, give him pointers, maybe ask questions to throw him off a bit; now he’s reconsidering. He thumbs over his nipples absently while he decides; Harry’s hands curl into fists. He feels his own hands move to mirror that. A smile spreads over his face. “You’ll do what I do,” he says. “Exactly what I do and nothing else.” Harry’s breath hitches. He looks down at Louis’ cock, the precome that pools on his belly. It looks like he’s considering asking something, licking his lips and opening his mouth once, twice, but then he purses his lips and nods. Louis sits up a little, his shirt falling to cover his tummy and his jeans dragging down over his arse and thighs. He rests his hands on the sofa. “You don’t have to,” he reminds gently, feeling a little colder from Harry’s reaction.

Harry looks up. “I know,” he replies with a smile. His pupils are blown and his eyes a little unfocused but clear enough. Louis reaches over and pets him, running a hand gently over his ear.

“Alright then,” he says as he sits back again. He wipes his hands on his jeans, leaves the right one where it is and wraps the left as low around his cock as he can reach. Harry mimics unthinkingly, doing what comes naturally to him, what he likes - right hand around the base. He sighs at the touch, a quiet mewl following the sound. Louis smirks. He doesn’t move, just watches, waiting for Harry to figure it out. It’ll be fun to watch him try to keep up. Harry stares back at him, waiting. A drop of sweat runs down the side of his face where a few curls are sticking to his temple. He looks down and finally notices; he whines, almost as if in apology, and switches hands. This time, he doesn’t look back up. When Louis drags a tight fist up to the head and down, he follows. When Louis slows down, so does he. When Louis sets a steady rhythm, he does the same.

Louis can see why people get addicted to power; the rush he gets at seeing Harry obey him so easily is exhilirating. It’s even better when he thinks about how there is no threat of punishment, no promise of reward, not even verbal instruction or validation, that Harry is doing this because he wants to. He pauses with his hand right underneath the head for no reason other than to see Harry’s hand stutter to a halt as well. He waits. Harry’s fingers sink into his thigh, nails leaving red marks behind. He’s whimpering a little with every shallow breath he takes and his arm is shaking a little with how tense he is. He’s obviously close, but he stays still, waiting for Louis to make a move. Louis licks his lips. He can outlast Harry easily, isn’t even trying to get off yet. He squeezes himself tighter, carefully dragging his hand up until he can dip a finger into the sheath of foreskin he creates and swirl it around the head, moaning. It’s a move he likes, but one he’s never seen Harry do before. Harry does it without hesitation.

“Fuck,” Louis curses breathlessly, hips lifting off the sofa; though it’s an involuntary reaction, Harry mimics it, fucking into his fist and mewling at the feeling. He settles back onto his calves with an almost panicked look on his face. Louis glances down to his cock, dark red and shiny with precome blurting out of it steadily. Somehow, he still finds it more fascinating to follow Harry’s reactions.

He drags his fist down his cock as far as he can until the head pops out, then licks over his other palm. He knows how sensitive Harry is, knows he will probably come from this; he feels a fresh wave of heat spread through him at the thought. He trails the tips of his fingers over the shaft, then closes them over the tip, twisting his wrist to palm over the head, watching Harry do the same. Harry only lasts long enough to look up at him and bite his lip; he arches his back and groans loudly, eyes slipping shut at the last second. He freezes, then slumps over, shaking as he comes silently.

Louis rests his head on the back of the sofa and spreads his arms out. He feels almost like he’s the one who’s just come, out of breath and too hot with sweat running down his chest and back. His cock rests against his belly, still hard and leaking; it twitches as if begging for more attention, but Louis is still focused on Harry. He listens to Harry gulping down air, to the whisper of Harry’s tail dragging slowly over the carpet, to a sob he makes when he, undoubtedly, milks the last drops of come out, to the noises that slowly taper off. “Bloody hell,” he tells the ceiling. If this is what he feels like after a trial run, he might not survive an actual session.

The tickle of Harry’s tail over his foot makes him jump a little in surprise. “Lou,” Harry rasps, the voice much closer than Louis expects. He sits up, finds Harry kneeling between his spread legs.

“Hey, kitten,” he says softly, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair. An unexpected bubble of fondness bursts in his chest. He tilts Harry’s head back to look at him and checks, “Alright?”

Harry kisses his palm and nuzzles into it. He puts his hands on Louis’ thighs; it takes Louis a second to realise he must have licked the come off. A jolt of arousal goes through him, heat rising in his belly. “May I?” Harry asks. He sounds a little high. He still hasn’t quite got his breathing under control, quick damp breaths ghosting over Louis’ skin when he leans in. He stops before he reaches Louis’ cock, but the way he licks his lips is difficult to misinterpret.

“You still want to suck me off?” Louis asks anyway.

“Please,” Harry whispers. Louis feels it go through him like a shock of electricity. He scratches at Harry’s scalp lightly, watching his ears twitch.

“Okay,” he agrees. His heart stutters at the look on Harry’s face, the slightly unfocused eyes and pink cheeks, the smear of come on his upper lip. The way he smiles like swallowing down Louis’ cock is the best prize he’s ever got. He takes a long shaky breat, blinks slowly up at Louis a few times, then very deliberately puts his hands behind his back. He opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out. His tail falls over Louis’ thigh, an almost anchoring weight. Louis pets it gently, tugging Harry’s head closer. He watches Harry’s eyelashes flutter, his nostrils flare as he’s pulled closer, his ears twitch. He pulls Harry’s head forward, gets a hand around himself and taps his cock against Harry’s tongue, before feeding it into his mouth. Harry goes easily; the deeper Louis goes, the more he seems to relax, shoulders slumping and muscles loosening until it’s only Louis’ hand in his hair that keeps him up. He closes his eyes slowly and wraps his lips around Louis’ cock, suckling on the head and humming at the taste. “Good boy,” Louis praises. He leans back with a sigh. It’s almost peaceful; there’s something about the way Harry seems perfectly content to just kneel and drool over his cock that calms him in a way, makes everything feel less urgent, more like very pleasant afterglow than needy build-up.

He guides Harry’s head up and down his cock slowly, almost lazily. The heat of Harry’s mouth is enough to keep him interested, the practised swirl of Harry’s tongue sending occasional thrills through him; it keeps arousal simmering just under his skin without the annoyingly persistent _need_ for it to go anywhere. He traces his thumb over the base of Harry’s ear as Harry swipes his tongue over the slit and swallows around him. He thinks if he could, he’d happily do this for hours.

He pushes Harry’s head down as much as he can; it’s not nearly enough to make him choke, but it’s enough to make him breathe a little harsher, to have spit running down Louis’ fingers. He swallows a few times convulsively, before getting himself under control. He looks up and sucks harder, as if in apology. Louis scratches behind his ears.

“Don’t worry,” he says, surprised by how breathy his voice comes out. “You’re still being good.”

The words work like magic on Harry; he closes his eyes again, looks almost like he’s smiling. And then he starts purring.

“Fucking hell,” Louis gasps at the vibrations suddenly going through him. He pushes Harry’s head down at the same time as he arches off the sofa, too quickly for Harry to adjust. Harry doesn’t fight him, but the way he chokes and splutters is enough to make Louis let go. “Sorry, sorry,” he says immediately, melting back into the sofa. He looks down at himself, at his cock shiny wet and his hand messy, at the string of spit that connects the head to Harry’s bottom lip. A drop of precome gathers at the tip.

“I can’t control it,” Harry says apologetically, voice tight and even deeper than usual. His hands are still held securely behind his back and he’s purring again as soon as the words are out. He’s still looking at Louis’ lap and leaning forward.

“I know,” Louis assures. He feels like there’s electricity coursing through his veins. He’s never been with a hybrid other than Harry and Harry’s never done this during sex before, only after when they’re showering together or cuddled under the blankets; the fact that he can’t control it makes it even better. Louis licks his lips. He’s starting to sweat again. He pulls Harry back onto his cock. He’s surprised by just how much this is doing for him, not just the physical side of it but the heady knowledge that he’s made Harry feel this good. His hips jerk up, his grip on Harry’s hair tightening though he’s quickly forgetting that he’s supposed to be in control here.

Harry’s ready for it this time, opens his mouth wider and lets Louis fuck into it shallowly. He’s drooling more now, slurping up the spit every time he pulls up. His hands stay behind his back obediently though his shoulders must hurt by now. The rumbling sound of his purring gets muffled a little every time he takes Louis’ cock. Louis wonders how it would sound, how it would _feel_ if he made Harry take him all the way in. He pushes Harry’s head down and holds him there for a few seconds, lying back and letting the feeling wash over him. He realises he’s shaking a little, in the rhythm of the vibrations of Harry’s throat. He groans and twists his hand around his cock, releasing his hold on Harry’s hair, though he keeps his hand on top of Harry’s head.

The moment he’s allowed, Harry speeds up. He circles the head with his tongue every time he pulls up. His tail curls around Louis’ thigh tightly. Louis has a sudden image of Harry’s tail squeezing his wrists together and holding him in place. He moans and starts following Harry’s mouth with his hand, stroking himself, Harry’s spit making the way slick. He feels a pull low in his belly, tightens his hand on his cock for a few more strokes before letting go and shoving Harry’s head down. Harry mewls and swallows around him, lowering himself as far as he can. He doesn’t try for anything more than that, doesn’t need to, just ssuckles on Louis’ cock and starts purring again. Louis can feel pressure building at the bottom of his spine, much faster than he expected.

“H,” he warns, just in case. Harry ignores him, cheeks sucked in and eyes blinking open slowly. He looks up. His ears twitch. He lowers his head until the teeth of Louis’ zip are biting into his cheeks visibly. Louis can’t really keep watching after that. He throws his head back and bites his lip to stifle the moans. His hips jerk up as he comes, but the relief doesn’t follow; Harry doesn’t just swallow, he tries to take more of Louis’ cock and keeps sucking, purring the entire time. If he kept going, he could probably make Louis come again. Louis pushes him off as soon as he can feel his arms, the feeling too intense even as his cock is still pulsing. He pants at the ceiling, waiting for his heart to stop trying to beat out of his chest. He pets Harry’s ears absently.

“Lou,” Harry sighs. He rubs his face over Louis’ thighs, nuzzles between his legs. The seam of Louis’ jeans presses on his balls, making his cock jump again, a few more drops of come pulsing out. He grunts and tugs Harry’s head up.

When he looks down, Harry’s eyes are still on his lap and his hands are still behind his back. “You can use your hands,” Louis says, his voice so raspy he sounds like he was the one who just had a cock in his mouth. He strokes Harry’s hair, just listening to him purr for a while. Belatedly, Harry moves his hands from his back and to Louis’ thighs. His tail falls down to curl around Louis’ ankle, soft hairs tickling over the arch of his foot. He licks his lips and blinks up at Louis, a smile spreading slowly over his face. “You were so good, love,” Louis praises, running his thumb over the edge of Harry’s ear to watch it twitch. “Did you enjoy that?”

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. He leans up to kiss the inside of Louis’ wrist. “Yes,” he says simply. “We’re talking about this later, aren’t we?”

“Definitely.”

“Later then,” Harry agrees. He falls forward, planting his head in Louis’ lap. He presses his nose into the juncture of Louis’ thigh and sniffs at him. He doesn’t seem to care that his hair fans out over Louis’ belly and softening cock, or that there’s come getting in his hair. He’s still purring, the rumble of it going through Louis and settling into his bones. Louispresses a hand over his mouth to keep the giggling inside when Harry’s hair starts tickling him. He grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa and wraps it around Harry’s shoulders.

“You’ll get cold,” he explains. “And you’ll need a shower,” he adds when Harry ignores him. Harry just nuzzles into him. “Alright then,” Louis says. He leans back, petting Harry’s hair and breathing deeply. The room smells like sweat and sex and a little bit like whatever one of their neighbours is frying. He wonders what it smells like to Harry.

*

Flashing a backstage pass at a concert always makes Louis feel important. He tries not to think about how the reason he has that pass is his younger sister. He’s not jealous of her rock’n’roll traveller lifestyle, that would be ridiculous (okay, maybe he’s _a little_ jealous he doesn’t get to tour the continent with his boyfriend’s band; whatever, nobody’s perfect). Harry stays close behind him, one hand on his hip. The other must be in his pocket, holding the earplugs Louis got him, just in case things get too loud for his liking. He’s nervous, said so himself that morning while they were still lazing around in bed; more than that though he seems to be fascinated by everything, from the exit to the stage to the sparsely furnished greenrooms to the instruments leaning against the wall.

His breath ghosts over Louis’ ear, sending shivers down his spine. “I used to dream about doing this you know. I wanted to be famous and write songs and sing on a big stage,” he says, hushed and quick, like confessing a secret.

Louis puts a hand over his and tangles their fingers. “Me too,” he admits. “I even auditioned for X Factor, but I didn’t make it.”

“They didn’t allow us on the show back when I wanted to try it out.”

“You can still try out.”

Harry comes up even closer behind him when they step into the busy hair and makeup area until they can barely walk without tripping each other up. “I think I’m over it,” he says with a somewhat self-conscious laugh.

Louis would disagree, tell Harry that he can be whatever he wants, that he can overcome anything that stands in his way, that he deserves the stages and the riches and the adoring crowds he dreamed of, that he’s not alone if he wants to try, but he spots Lottie. Her bright shiny hair unmistakeable. She looks tiny and young between all the other artists working there and the boys from the band. She hasn’t noticed them yet. God, Louis’ missed her. She was the first baby he ever held, the first sibling he babysat, the reason he learnt how to make pancakes and read with different voices; for a long time they were inseparable. Now she’s off travelling, doing her own thing the way he was once going to and he’s settled down with a flat in a big city and a well-paid job and now Harry, the way she was supposed to. There’s something weirdly nostalgic about seeing her.

“She looks like you,” Harry says behind him. It has nothing to do with him and yet, Louis feels like it’s a compliment.

“Charlotte,” he calls out tersely. Even after all this time, Lottie still jumps at that.

“Oh, fuck you, I thought someone was actually angry with me,” she says on a laugh. She wipes her hands on a cloth and comes up to him for a hug. “Hi,” she whispers into his shoulders. With her in his arms, Louis feels almost tall and big in ways that aren’t physical. He hugs her tightly and sways her left and right like he used to when they were kids. It’s been months since he last saw her. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the still familiar scent of makeup powder and her favourite coconut hair product.

“It’s good to have you here where I can keep an eye on you again,” he says,  because he might get sappy if he doesn’t open with a joke. She shoves him away.

“Shut up,” she grumbles under her breath. She looks over his shoulder. “And this is?”

“This is my boyfriend, Harry,” Louis says, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder and pulling him closer. Harry goes willingly, though his ears are pressed down against his head and his tail is wrapped around Louis’ leg tightly. He stumbles a little and tenses when Lottie gives him a hug; he still hugs her back awkwardly. It’s not the best start, but something about the interaction is making Harry smile, and that settles a niggling feeling somewhere deep in Louis’ belly, an anxiety he never even realised he was feeling. He puts an arm around Harry’s waist as soon as Lottie releases him; Harry relaxes into the touch almost immediately.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Harry,” Lottie says gently. She reaches out to touch Harry’s shoulder, but stops herself. Louis can practically see the wheels turning inside her head. She settles on saying, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Harry replies, one of his ears flopping up. He cups a hand around his mouth and stage-whispers, “Everything he’s told you is a lie.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t trusted him since I found out Santa isn’t real,” Lottie says, giving Louis a saccharine smile. Louis narrows his eyes at her.

“Is this how it’s going to be then? The two of you ganging up on me?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, the movement jostling Louis as well. “It’s the only way we stand a chance against you, babe,” he says in the most obviously patronising tone Louis has ever heard from him.

“I know where you sleep, Styles,” Louis warns, digging his fingers into Harry’s ribs and making him squeak and squirm.

“He can always come with me instead,” Lottie says. “We can travel the world together, Harry. I’ll even throw in some free makeup. You know it’s the right choice. I am clearly the superior Tomlinson here.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Harry says, “but I think I’m going to stay where I am.” Louis feels a pleasant warmth bubble in his belly. He pulls Harry close again and kisses the top of his head, shivering when Harry nuzzles into his neck. The way Lottie smiles at them makes him an odd mixture of proud and shy. He grins into Harry’s hair.

 

_absolution, n. - release from guilt, obligation, or punishment; the act of absolving, freeing from blame_

 

One of their neighbours from across the street is moving out. She’s been stacking boxes by the kerb, likely waiting for her friend with the van to come back and take them away. Louis doesn’t know her, not by name, but he’s seen her before, run into her in the street and even waved at her from his window when they happened to be sneaking a smoke at the same time. He’s been seeing a lot more of her since he started joining Harry in his hobby of people watching from the balcony. Now he also knows that she owns a rainbow bong, never wakes up in time for work, dances in her underwear while cooking and has a cute girlfriend. She’s not a friend and Louis won’t miss her per se, and somebody else will move in who they can watch and make up stories about. It’ll be strange without her though, like breaking a favourite photo frame and trying to get used to its replacement.

He tugs on Harry’s hair a little. “Why do you think she’s moving?” he asks.

Harry nuzzles into his shoulder. “I think,” he says slowly, “that she’s moving in with her girlfriend. They’ve found a nice airy flat somewhere near the river. Lots of windows. Close to where she works.” He sounds sleepy and wistful, almost high. He runs his hand up and down the inside of Louis’ thigh.

“Is that what you want?” Louis asks carefully. In his mind what used to be Harry living in his flat has long ago turned into _them_ living in _their_ flat, but it’s not really something they discuss much. Harry pays a little less than half the rent, sleeps in Louis’ bed, has complete freedom to organise and reorganise, buy new things and throw out old ones, even hounds Louis about the mess in the bedroom. As far as Louis is concerned, they have a good thing here. He should have maybe thought to ask Harry’s opinion sooner.

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe,” he says; he doesn’t seem to be giving it much serious thought, sounds more like he’s daydreaming. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess,” Louis agrees. “It’s nice here,” he adds, unable to stop the defensiveness blooming in his chest. He likesit  here, likes that this is the first place that was truly his, if only for a while, likes to look around and see the memories he’s made. He likes that there are traces of Harry everywhere around him, that this is where they met, where they first touched and kissed, where he first saw Harry smile and heard him purr. Besides, it still feels like he only just moved in.

Harry’s hand pauses on his thigh. He sits up, their legs still tangled, but arms no longer touching. “I didn’t say it wasn’t. I like it here, Lou,” he says. “But one day I’d like us to, I don’t know… Look at ads online together, see a few places. Pick something together where we can--” he cuts himself off, bites his lip. “Get a kitten,” he finishes ambiguously. The smile he’s suppressing pokes dimples into his cheeks. Louis kisses the one closer to him, feeling like a thousand bubbles are popping under his ribs.

“Did you forget kittens aren’t my biggest fans?” he asks. His heart beats out of rhythm as he waits for Harry’s answer.

“This one is,” Harry says. “And you know that’s not what I meant.”

Louis presses a smile into the crook of Harry’s neck. He hadn’t thought of it that way, hadn’t considered that leaving this place meant finding a new one, one that would always have been theirs. He kisses up Harry’s neck to his jawline, biting down on the mark he left there last night. Somewhere down the street, the old van their neighbour’s been waiting for rumbles. Louis soothes the bite with a kiss and pulls back. “How do you know this _friend_ isn’t her secret lover? Maybe she’s cheating on her girlfriend and this is them eloping,” he suggests, the subtly salty taste of Harry’s skin still on his lips.

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. “Must you make everything dramatic?” he asks. “Can’t they be in a loving polyamorous relationship?”

“Ever the romantic,” Louis teases, nudging his shoulder. He watches their neighbour help her friend load the boxes in the back. Something occurs to him, a conversation they had months ago. He turns to Harry. “Do you still want to move out?”

Harry frowns down at the street. He hums uncertainly. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I still think… I’d still want to know what it’s like. To be on my own. Would you be angry?”

Louis has to think about that. He likes waking up to Harry’s face. He likes hearing Harry’s rambling stories before falling asleep. He likes Harry’s cooking and how he whines a little in his sleep and even that he nags about Louis’ dish washing habits. But he remembers that for Harry, this isn’t about wanting to live apart, it’s about wanting to have some independence for the first time in his life. He sighs. “I wouldn’t like it. But I’ll support whatever choice you make.”

Harry bites his lip and hides a smile in his shoulder. His ears flop around the way they do when he can’t hold something in; his tail tickles over Louis’ waist when it twitches. “Thank you,” he mumbles. Louis rubs his back.

“Nothing to thank me for, kitten.”

“We’re doing this a bit backwards, aren’t we?” Harry laughs. “Usually people meet, get together, _then_ move in.”

Louis shrugs. “We’re special.”

*

Harry is putting the souffles in when Louis walks into the kitchenette. He has his pink oven mitts on and an apron tied around his waist and he’s humming something under his breath. Louis can feel an embarrassingly fond expression spreading over his face and he’s entirely helpless to stop it.

“And now we wait,” Harry says under his breath as he closes the oven and takes off the mitts. He must know Louis is there, but he makes no indication of moving away from the stove, seemingly set on spending nearly half an hour watching his desserts rise.

Louis leaves his glass on the counter and comes up behind him. As soon as he wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, he feels the subtle vibrations of Harry purring. He noses into the crook of Harry’s neck. “Still nervous?” he asks. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night and finding Harry swaddled in his blanket nest by the window, staring unblinkingly over into his new flat and it’s only been a few hours since Harry sent him off to buy peanuts because apparently one couldn’t have a housewarming party without those.

“About living here? A bit,” Harry replies. “About being a host? I think I’m doing a pretty good job so far,” he adds proudly.

“You are, love. A _very_ good job.”

“I just needed a minute I guess,” Harry explains. He leans his head back on Louis’ shoulder. He’s grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?” he asks the ceiling.

A startled laugh bubbles out of Louis. He thinks back to his first week as a student, moving in and hanging up old posters to make the room feel more like his, meeting his flatmates and feeling out of place around them. He remembers learning how to get up in time when there’s no one to nag at him to do it, figuring out his own way around campus, learning how to do his own laundry, how to survive on more than pot noodles, all the little accomplishments that felt monumental at the time. “Terrifying,” he says. “But exciting, yeah.” He kisses up to Harry’s jaw. “I’m right across the street if you need me,” he reminds quietly.

“I won’t,” Harry replies almost immediately. “I’ll be fine.”

Louis smiles. “I know.” He slides one hand under Harry’s tee and scratches gently at his tummy. The rumbling in Harry’s chest gets louder, vibrations going through Louis and making him feel like his whole body is tingling. He sways a little left and right, humming a tune he’s making up on the spot. Harry chuckles but goes with it. He tangles his fingers with Louis’ on his hip and tilts his head for a kiss. He’s ridiculous, with his closed eyes and pouty lips and a tail around one of Louis’ legs, with a flat right across the street from Louis’ and a dinner he’s hosting before even unpacking all of his boxes, and Louis kisses him without even thinking about it, an instinct at this point.

Somebody clears their throat. “Are you quite done?” Zayn’s voice comes from the direction of the door.

Harry giggles a little, but pulls back. He’s flushed pink, lips a little shiny and eyes slightly unfocused. “Oops,” he mumbles and bends over to check on his souffles. Louis turns to Zayn and narrows his eyes. Zayn is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk playing on his lips. He’s obviously only teasing.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt?” Louis asks.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to leave your own party to make out in the kitchen?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “We’ve both seen far worse than _that_.” Harry’s purr turns into a low growl and he glues himself to Louis’ side.

Zayn’s smirk just grows. “Harry,” he says slowly. “Are you purring?”

Harry’s ears twitch and he blushes furiously. Still, he mumbles, “Eat me.” Louis bites his lip, a strange sense of pride warming him from the inside.

“Hey, Z?” he calls out just as Zayn is about to leave.

“Hm?”

He pulls Harry in by the back of the neck and kisses him as theatrically as he can, flipping Zayn off behind his back. Harry kisses back immediately, only purrs louder. His lips stretch into a smile when Louis licks at them.

*

Louis may be a little bit tipsy and that may be a little bit of an understatement. His key can’t seem to find the lock. In fact, he’s not even sure it’s the right key. He jumps back, startled when the door in front of him opens anyway. “Louis?” Harry asks sleepily. He’s rubbing at his eyes and pouting, ears down and tail dragging limply behind him. The trackies he sleeps in are slung low on his hips, his chest bare to show off the butterfly recently inked into his tummy. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, I live here?” Louis replies. The way he tilts his head makes him queasy. He rights himself and leans against the doorjamb because Harry is still standing in his way.

“You live across the street, Louis,” Harry informs him flatly.

“You’re grumpy,” Louis complains. Then, “It’s cute.” He giggles a little and sways forward. Harry’s hand on his chest stops him getting closer. It’s warm and large and sends a thrill down his spine.

“Louis,” Harry says firmly. “You’re drunk. And you stink.”

Louis pouts. That’s not very nice, he thinks. Or says. He’s not entirely sure. He runs his hand over Harry’s outstretched arm, feeling the tense muscles there. “You like how I smell,” he mumbles, maybe a little grumpily. He doesn’t want to be standing out here, with a cranky Harry at arm’s length; he wants to come in and have a glass of water, kiss a little and fall asleep with Harry’s warm body pressed against his. It’s not what he planned for tonight, but now that he’s hear it does sound nice.

Harry clenches his jaw. “You smell of somebody else,” he hisses. His fingers press into Louis’ chest. “Go home, Louis, it’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“No,” Louis protests, not even sure himself why. His voice echoes through the empty hallway. Harry sighs. He looks around and then yanks Louis inside by the shirt. He slams the door shut behind them and crosses his arms.

“Talk, then.”

Louis frowns. “Don’t wanna talk,” he says. “Wanna kiss you. And sleep.”

“No. Why do you smell like another cat?”

Louis’ head hurts. He rubs at his temples. He’s maybe a bit drunker than he originally thought. He presses a hand over his mouth so he won’t be sick. It shouldn’t be this hard to make his thoughts coherent enough for words. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Don’t bullshit me, Louis,” Harry spits.

“Don’t yell at me,” Louis returns, a lot louder than he intends. He sees Harry flinch and take a step back, ears down against his skull. Scared. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to--” Harry shakes his head and turns away. Louis feels a little sick, alcohol with a dash of guilt. He reaches out a hand.

“Don’t, I don’t want to smell her on you any more than I have to.”

Louis rolls his eyes; it makes the world spin. “She’s a co-worker. We went out to celebrate,” he says as calmly as he can manage. He has to suppress a hiccup somewhere in the middle so he’s not sure how believable he sounds. “Why do you always have to be so jealous?” he mumbles, more to himself than for Harry to hear.

“Please,” Harry replies anyway. “You’re just as bad.”

The silence that falls between them is tense. Louis watches the hard set of Harry’s shoulders, the straight line of his back. His head is still very fuzzy and the strange nostalgia that always settles in his chest when he drinks too much is still there. Sometimes Harry’s mere presence soothes it; now it’s just aggravating him.

He sighs. He hates it when they argue. He especially hates it when it’s over something silly like this and when he knows neither of them will budge, too stubborn and too proud to admit they were wrong. He wishes he hadn’t ended up here. The night should’ve ended when Harry called him to check if he needed somebody to bring him home or if he’d left enough money for a taxi and say goodnight. He knows how jealous Harry gets when he _doesn’t smell right_ , intimately familiar with a similar burning heat in the pit of his stomach that starts every time he sees someone else pet Harry; it’s why he didn’t plan on coming here.

“I should go,” he finally decides. He’s not really in the right headspace for a proper conversation and he knows Harry isn’t at his most reasonable either; they won’t be getting anywhere other than a shouting match tonight. He heads for the door, a little unsteady on his feet. He runs his hand down Harry’s back as he passes, feels him relax just fraction under the touch.

“Don’t forget to drink some water before you pass out,” Harry mumbles grumpily, following a step behind him. Louis smiles a little despite everything. He turns at the door, the world swimming around him with the sudden movement, and leans in to nudge their noses together. He misses, but Harry presses a chaste kiss to his lips anyway. “I’m still not happy with you,” he says.

“I know,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes. He has to keep his hand on the wall lest he stumble over his own feet. He knows Harry watches him make his way to the stairs because he doesn’t hear the lock click until he’s halfway out of the building.

**

When Louis comes back from the meeting, Harry is still there. He’s lying diagonally across the bed, as naked as Louis left him, scrolling through some web store and munching on microwaveable cinnamon rolls. His feet are up in the air, crossed at the ankles, and his tail snakes between them as it swishes from side to side. He looks back over his shoulder. “Hi,” he drawls.

Louis leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms. “What are you still doing here?” he asks, trying to sound strict while fighting down a smile.

“Resting?” Harry suggests, raising his eyebrows. There’s a smudge of brown cinnamon filling in the corner of his mouth.

“Aren’t you supposed to be roaming IKEA and mispronouncing every single Swedish word known to man while looking for new sheets?”

“But it’s my day off,” Harry reasons. He blinks up at Louis a few times, smiling too sweetly. “Isn’t this what people do on their days off?”

“You literally took the day off so you could go shopping for everything you still need.”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe the excessive florals are growing on me,” he says as he goes back to his laptop. “Maybe I’ve decided that’s my bedroom aesthetic.”

“That’s not an aesthetic; that’s exposure therapy,” Louis replies, shaking his head. He undoes his jeans and steps out of them, throwing them into the corner of the room on top of a pile of dirty clothes that may be Harry’s. He climbs onto the bed, sitting cross-legged by Harry’s hip. The shirt he’s wearing is Harry’s, too big on him with the neckline falling open below his collarbones and the edge of it resting almost halfway down his thighs; it smells like Harry too, something he only realised when he was already in the lobby and taking his jacket off. The girl he’s working under on his new project gave him a strange look when he tucked his head against his shoulder to smell it.

“You weren’t complaining about the sheets last week when you were fucking me on them,” Harry says casually, nudging Louis’ shoulder with his feet. The tip of his tail tickles under Louis’ chin.

Louis feels heat rising inside him. “Wasn’t really focusing on the sheets,” he says, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s tail and running them up to the tip. The hair underneath is silky and soft, the muscles strong when Louis tries to manipulate them. He ends up having to let Harry’s tail snake up his arm while he runs his hand down it against the grain. “What are you looking at?” he asks, leaning forward a little to look over Harry’s shoulder. He scratches gently at the base of Harry’s tail, playing with the short hairs that run up his spine before tapering off.

“Oh you know, things,” Harry replies with a laugh. He scrolls up until an image finally comes up on the screen, an elaborate hand-crafted flogger with braided tails and a dark purple handle. Louis feels a tug deep in his belly.

“Jesus, H, a little warning,” he says, inadvertently sinking his nails into the dimples low on Harry’s back. Harry hangs his head as he laughs before turning around to lie on his back.

“But your reactions are so much better when you don’t expect it,” he teases with a smirk. His tail taps playfully on the bed. There’s a fading trail of Louis’ nails down his chest and an angry bruise above his hip where Louis bit him that morning. His cock rests half-hard by his thigh. The way his fingers dance over his side to draw attention has to be deliberate. Louis’ mouth goes dry. He knows Harry’s playing him; he also knows it’s working.

“You’re such a shit sometimes,” he says with a roll of his eyes. He tickles over the arch of Harry’s foot, grabs at his ankle before he can move it away.

“Oh no. No, no, no, no,” Harry warns, but he’s already closing the laptop and moving it further away from the edge of the bed like he knows it’s pointless. Louis doesn’t give him enough time to finish being responsible before dragging him down the bed. He settles on his knees between Harry’s spread legs and leans forward until his hair is tickling over Harry’s face. When he sinks his fingers into Harry’s sides, Harry is still screeching about being moved. He kicks and screams, pinches Louis blindly anywhere he can reach, wiggles around on the bed and curls in on himself in an attempt to escape before finally giving up; he stops fighting and just lies spread-eagled on the bed, giggling breathlessly. “I surrender,” he pants, “I give up, you win, please!” Louis pokes him in the tummy one last time. He’s not breathing any easier and he’s pretty sure he has a few nail marks more and a few hairs less than when they started, but he still counts it as a win. Harry’s laughter settles under his ribcage like a pleasant warmth, wakes a gentle flutter in his chest. He keeps his hands on Harry’s waist, thumbs running absently over his skin. “You don’t play fair,” Harry whines. His hair is a wild mess, frizzy and catching over his ears, making them twitch randomly; his cheeks are flushed and his skin shiny with a light sheen of sweat. He’s still giggling a little, pink lips stretched in a smile and dimples in his cheeks.

Louis nudges their noses together. “You’re one to talk,” he replies. He rests his forehead against Harry’s and licks his lips. One of Harry’s hands comes up to cradle the back of his head, the other running over his shoulder and down his chest.

“All is fair in love and tickle wars,” Harry says, tilting his head up. He presses a chaste kiss to Louis’ lips, licks over the top one and sucks it into his mouth. Louis is too distracted to notice what Harry is doing before it’s too late; he yelps when Harry finds a nipple through his shirt, pinches and twists it harshly. He bites on Harry’s bottom lip unintentionally, grinding down against him; they’re both hard already.

“Really, H?” Louis teases. He slides his knees apart, pushing Harry’s thighs wider open. “You still had come dripping out of you when I left and you already want more?” He _tsk_ s. “Greedy.”

Harry huffs. He rolls his hips up, the head of his cock catching in the folds of Louis’ boxers. “Are you really complaining?” he asks, twisting around until he lines their cocks up and starts rubbing against Louis slowly.

“Suppose not,” Louis allows, eyes fluttering shut. He kisses Harry properly, licks into his mouth until he can taste the cinnamon. Though arousal simmers low in his belly, there’s no urgency to it when he runs his hands down Harry’s sides to his thighs and lifts them up; the muscles in his stomach hurt from how hard he has to tense them to hold himself up, but it’s worth it for the way Harry’s legs wrap around his middle. He leans on his elbows, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair and thumbs brushing over the roots of Harry’s ears. Harry hums a little, keeps rolling his hips up, grinding their cocks together. His hand is still on Louis’ chest, fingers brushing over Louis’ nipple, gently now. He’s kissing back slowly, almost lazily, slides his tongue over Louis’ before their lips even touch, sloppy and messy and wet. Louis rolls his hips down to meet him.

He feels overdressed though it has little to do with how he’s starting to sweat from the heat gathering between them; Harry’s chest brushes his with every shallow breath he takes and Louis wants to feel that on his bare skin, wants to chase the flush down Harry’s body as far as it goes, wants Harry’s hands on him with nothing between them. What he doesn’t want is to move away enough to actually undress.

Harry’s tail runs up his leg, lightly tickling over the back of his knee and the inside of his thigh; it leaves the hairs in its wake standing up. Louis sighs into Harry’s mouth. A part of him wants to move faster, to kiss Harry harder, to hold him tighter, flip him over and fuck him rough; a part of him wants just this, to feel this close, this much.

Harry spreads his legs farther and presses his hips down into the bed. He breaks the kiss to watch his hand run down Louis’ chest; he bunches up his own tee that Louis is still wearing and pulls it over Louis’ head, leaving him to untangle his arms on his own. As if he can’t stay away, he puts his hand back on Louis’ belly immediately, his touch feather light as it moves lower. Louis looks down between them to Harry’s legs framing his hips, the glistening sweat on Harry’s chest, Harry’s fingers wrapping around the girth of his cock. When Harry moves his hand down, he drags Louis’ boxers with it. Louis gasps as the waistband drags over his cock and the head pops out. He watches Harry’s cock blurt out a few drops of precome in response.

“Lou,” Harry breathes. He nudges at Louis’ cheek, nips at his nose, pulls on his hair to tilt his head up. “Kiss me,” he whines. His eyes are still closed, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. Louis runs a finger over the side of his face. He grins, kissing the tip of Harry’s nose, his Cupid’s bow, the seam of his lips, the point of his chin until Harry’s smiling again. Harry sighs, fingers carding through Louis’ hair. “ _Fuck_ me,” he whispers. His heels dig into the backs of Louis’ thighs. The words make Louis’ belly twist with arousal. He gets a hand on Harry’s thigh, fingers sinking into the lean muscles there; he hikes Harry’s leg higher up around his waist. It doesn’t leave much space between them, but Harry slips his hand into Louis’ boxers, runs a loose fist up and down his cock. “Fuck me,” he says again, teeth catching on Louis’ bottom lip. Louis fucks down into his hand. He kisses over Harry’s jaw, sucks a bruise at the hinge, tasting the sweat on Harry’s skin.

The touch of Harry’s hand is not enough, too light and uncoordinated. Every twitch of muscle and brush of skin is no more than a tease, all build-up and no relief in sight. Harry’s hand running down his back feels like it’s sending sparks all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. He sinks his teeth into Harry’s neck; Harry arches his back, pushes Louis’ boxers down to grab at his arse. The head of his cock bumps over Louis’ when he moves. Louis gasps. He tugs on Harry’s hair, tilting his head to the side. “Harry,” he whispers, kissing up to Harry’s lips again.

The moment their tongues touch, Harry is pulling him down closer, his hand twisting as he wraps it around both of them for the next stroke. He lifts his leg, hooks his toes in the waistband of Louis’ boxers and drags them down to his knees. His tail slides up between Louis’ legs, the tip of it whispering over the curve of Louis’ arse. It tickles, more so because Louis doesn’t expect it and he has to swallow down a laugh that scratches at the back of his throat. He buries his nose in Harry’s hair and wiggles his hips, trying to make it stop, but in the end he can’t help an embarrassingly high-pitched giggle from escaping him. Harry falls back on the bed with a huff.

“Sorry, it tickles, sorry,” Louis mumbles, still choking on laughter as Harry’s tail trails up between his arsecheeks. Harry flicks his tail away and replaces it with his hand. His fingers run down Louis’ crack. Louis’ hips snap forward. “Better,” he mouths over Harry’s shoulder as the tips of two fingers press at his hole. He arches his back, pushing into Harry’s fingers before fucking back into his hand, cock dragging over Harry’s. “Thought you wanted me to fuck you.”

Harry runs a finger over his rim. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “I mean, the moment’s ruined anyway.”

“Oi!” Louis pulls up on his arms and pinches Harry’s bicep. “And whose fault is that?”

Harry throws his head back as he laughs, the sound of it throaty and deep enough to send shivers down Louis' spine. His hand tightens on their cocks fractionally, as if he’s acting on instinct. “You were taking forever,” he drawls. “I was getting bored.”

“I was _creating_ the _moment_ that’s so important to you,” Louis returns, slapping over Harry’s sweaty chest. He runs the tip of his nose over the side of Harry’s, presses a kiss to his lips, brushes his thumb over the peak of Harry’s nipple. “What are _you_ doing now? Stalling?” Harry nips at his lip. He smirks, a hint of mischief in his eyes. The next thing Louis knows, Harry’s flipped them over and he’s the one on his back. Harry’s face swims above him a little as he adjusts to the sudden change. Harry’s grinning, holding himself up with his hands on Louis’ chest.

“Who’s impatient now?” he asks, grinding his arse down against Louis’ cock. His cock drips precome over Louis’ belly. Louis runs his hands up Harry’s thighs, over his hips and to his arse. He sinks his fingers into the softness there and spreads Harry’s arsecheeks roughly, proving a point. Harry’s head falls back when he moans.

Louis chuckles. “I still think it’s you,” he decides. Harry laughs; he pinches one of Louis’ nipples and leans forward again. His hair falls around his face like a curtain; it tickles over Louis’ cheeks. He starts rolling his hips, rubbing his cock over Louis’.

“Lou?” he says, a teasing smirk lifting the corner of his lips. Louis fucks up against him, matching his rhythm. The air around them feels different now, now longer too thick to breathe. He raises his eyebrows. Harry kisses him, catching his bottom lip between his teeth when he pulls back. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he grits out, his cock twitching against Louis’ at the words. Louis can feel wetness pooling on his belly; he looks down at his hipbones pressing into Harry’s thighs, Harry’s cock, fat and dark where it’s resting against his. He bucks his hips up, watches the string of precome connecting the head of Harry’s cock to his belly break when Harry jolts with the movement.

“Tell me you didn’t put the lube away.”

“Please,” Harry snorts. He feels over the sheets near the pillows and comes back with the almost empty bottle that he drops on Louis’ chest. “I barely even dragged my arse to the shower.” This time when Louis bucks up, it’s not entirely intentional. He squeezes Harry’s arse, spreads him open again. He runs his fingers down over the exposed crack. When he presses down, the tip of one finger goes in easily even dry. Harry pushes back into it with a moan. “Wishing I hadn’t right about now,” he says breathlessly as he lifts off.

Louis groans at the mental image of Harry straddling his waist, arse to his face, tail curled up and out of the way, holding himself open for Louis’ tongue, still wet with lube and tasting of Louis’ come. He rubs the pad of his finger over Harry’s hole. “You’re _filthy_ ,” he decides.

Harry pouts. “Not anymore,” he says wistfully. Louis rolls his eyes. He pulls Harry a little closer, making him overbalance and fall forward until their foreheads are pressed together. “You plan on taking your hands off my bum any time soon?” Harry teases. The tip of his tail flicks left and right over his shoulder. Louis follows it with his eyes as he hums, pretending to be thinking about it; then he gives Harry’s arse a little pat before squeezing it hard. He grins.

“I don’t think so,” he replies.

Harry sighs. “Fine. I guess I have to do everything myself today,” he says as if it’s a huge hardship to pick up the bottle of lube from Louis’ chest. He taps it against his hand several times before upending it over his palm; only a single dollop drips down on the tips of his fingers. The bottle makes a weird sound when he squeezes it. He scrunches up his nose distastefully, ears flattening against his head and perking up again. It only takes a second after their eyes meet for them both to break into laughter, ugly snorting sounds interspersed with little gasps. Louis thinks that maybe that should be a turn off, but all it does is make him feel somehow light, almost high on nothing but Harry’s happiness; he’s as hard as ever and when he looks down between them Harry’s cock twitches, drooling over his belly. Harry must catch him looking; he rolls his hips down, making Louis gasp. “My eyes are up here,” he teases. Louis looks up before he even registers the words, then rolls his eyes at the smirk on Harry’s face.

“But I love your tits, babe,” he says, going for the sleaziest tone he can muster; it requires thinking about an old uncle with bad breath. He shudders. Harry pokes at his cheek with a finger wet with lube.

“Don’t make that face at me.” He sits up and crosses his arms in front of himself, making his chest bulge up, tucks his chin against it. “I have nice tits,” he decides, looking down at himself as if seriously considering it. He’s pouting a little. Louis actually cannot believe this is a conversation he’s having when Harry’s naked on top of him. Even worse, his first instinct is to sit up and press a kiss to either side of Harry’s chest and in the centre where he’s managed to give himself a bit of cleavage. He’s not sure if he’s laughing at himself or at Harry.

“You have the _nicest_ tits, kitten,” he says as seriously as he can manage. “But,” he adds, looking up at Harry’s frowning face and squeezing his arse, “I’m more of an arse man myself.”

“I kind of figured,” Harry replies, wiggling around on Louis’ lap. He drops his arms, one slick hand cupping both of their cocks. Louis looks down between them, at Harry’s long fingers wrapping around them, at the way his thumb swipes over the tips and the string of wetness that stretches between them after. He licks his lips, mouth watering at the sight. It can’t be more than a few seconds that he spends lost in watching Harry’s cock jump, breaking the trail of precome between them as if in slow motion, when he reaches back behind himself. Harry snaps him out of it. He grips them tighter, strokes down their cocks. “Gonna help me out here or nah?” he asks, twisting his wrist at the base. Louis doesn’t even have the time to decide that he doesn’t want to make Harry work for it some more before he’s squeezing Harry’s arse and spreading him open.

He watches the muscles in Harry’s tummy work as he tries to maintain his balance, feels the brush of Harry’s fingers against his own. A drop of sweat runs down Harry’s chest and he follows the same path with his tongue up Harry’s throat to his chin and lips. Harry doesn’t really kiss back, lips parted and slack under Louis’. He makes a sound in his throat, a choked-off moan. Louis feels it go through him like a jolt of electricity, feels the way Harry tenses up for a second before slumping forward, tastes the breath Harry breathes out into his mouth. He pulls Harry closer and nips at his lip. Harry’s fingers tighten around their cocks before his hand falls away and comes up to rest on Louis’ bicep.

“Fuck,” he whispers. He shifts up on his knees, holding onto Louis for balance as his arm starts moving behind his back. Louis watches his face. He can feel Harry’s cock bumping against his, smearing sticky precome over his belly; he gets a hand between them, fists their cocks loosely. His hand is not as big as Harry’s, not enough for anything more than slow strokes and a little friction, but it doesn’t matter anyway because it's all secondary to watching Harry for reactions. He squeezes Harry’s arse. He can feel the steady rhythm of Harry’s fingers moving in and out. His breathing speeds up with it.

Harry’s watching him back, eyes half-closed and a little unfocused. He licks his lips and tilts his head back with a sigh. The mark Louis’ teeth left on his neck is still red. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. His skin is shiny with sweat and his chest rises visibly with the shaky breath he takes when twists his arm a little. He’s putting on a show, Louis knows. He twists his wrist, palming over the head of Harry’s cock and slaps an open palm over the curve of Harry’s arse. Harry jolts forward with a loud moan, gripping Louis’ arm tighter. His head falls forward, forehead resting against Louis’.

“That’s not very helpful,” he says breathlessly. He still smells like cinnamon.

Louis smacks his arse again, then soothes the skin with his hand before Harry’s even relaxed again; it’s already warm. “But it’s fun,” he says. He dips his fingers between Harry’s cheeks, feels out where he’s stretched around two of his own fingers. Harry just slumps forward and hides his face in Louis’ neck, pausing immediately when Louis prods at him. He mouths at Louis’ neck.

“Come on,” he says, rolling his hips and pushing back into Louis’ hands. Louis just spanks him again. Harry moans and relaxes into him further, panting into his neck. He starts moving his fingers again, tensing for a second when he adds another. “You’re the least helpful boyfriend ever.”

Louis hums. He lets go of himself, gives Harry’s cock a few quick, tight strokes that make him gasp before reaching down between Harry’s legs; he cups Harry’s balls, rolls them around in his palm and gives them a light tug. When he presses his fingers behind them, he can almost feel the push of Harry’s fingers inside. He thinks, nonsensically, that he can feel his own heart beating in the rhythm of Harry's fingers.

His back is starting to hurt from staying in the same position for too long and trying to hold Harry up at the same time; he's getting impatient again. He spanks Harry’s arse once more, and then five or six times in quick succession until Harry arches his back, fingers slipping out, and grabs at Louis’ forearm with a wet hand. Louis leans back, letting his hands drop to Harry’s thighs. They’re shaking. The rest of him isn’t in a much better shape either, chest rising and falling quickly and belly tense. His cock is flushed dark red, standing up between his legs with precome dripping down onto Louis’ thighs. His eyes are shut tightly and he’s biting his lip. Louis _tsk_ s.

“A few spanks always enough to get you this close?” he teases like he doesn't know exactly how easy Harry is for a good spanking.

Harry takes a few more shaky breaths. He laughs a little as he kneels up and shifts forward. “Sod off, I’ve been horny all day,” he says.

“Insatiable,” Louis replies. He runs his hands up Harry’s legs to his hips. A shiver runs down his spine when Harry grabs for his cock to spread the remaining lube over it.

“Stop complaining,” Harry says, wiping his hand on the shirt he pulled off of Louis before throwing it off the bed.

He knees his way up over Louis’ cock, arches his back and reaches behind himself. His hand feels almost cold when he gets it on the base of Louis’ cock and holds it steady. He hovers for a few seconds, guiding Louis’ cock between his cheeks and rubbing it over his crack. It’s the worst kind of tease and Louis’ fingers sink into his hips; he bites his lip, holding back. He meets Harry’s eyes. Harry’s whole face is flushed and his hair is damp with sweat; his ears twitch and he grins mischievously. He balances himself with a hand on Louis’ chest as he starts to sink down. Louis watches him for as long as he can keep his eyes open; the image of Harry’s head thrown back and lips parted on a moan stays with him. The sudden heat and pressure as Harry slams down as soon as the head pops in makes him gasp. He grips Harry’s hips so tightly he thinks he’ll probably leave bruises and pulls him down as far as he can until Harry's arse is safely nestled in his lap.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers. He tucks his face back into the crook of Louis’ neck, wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders and hugs Louis’ hips with his thighs. Even his tail comes up to curl around Louis’ waist. He’s like some perverse sort of a cuddly koala. Louis buries a laugh in his neck as he hugs back, hands sticking to the sweat covering Harry’s back. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry whispers.

“Alright?” Louis checks just in case. He rubs Harry’s back, stifling a few more giggles when Harry holds him even tighter. He feels hot, too hot with Harry this close, skin already tacky with sweat, but he doesn’t want to move away. There’s an itch under his skin, an urge to take over that’s always there on some level when he has Harry like this; it’s not enough to overpower the need to just be as close to Harry as possible.

“Fuck,” Harry says. He rolls his hips, whimpering when he clenches on Louis’ cock. “So good,” he sighs. When his ear moves, it brushes over Louis’ cheek. For someone who’s been practically begging for this from the moment Louis walked in, he seems perfectly content to just sit on Louis’ cock and grind down every once in a while. Louis doesn’t mind. He nuzzles into Harry’s shoulder and gives him time. “Lou,” Harry whispers. “Fuck, you feel so good.” Louis feels every word as if it were a physical touch. His cock twitches.

He runs his hand down Harry’s spine, shaping out each knob with his fingers. His hand barely spans half of Harry’s waist when it gets to the line of short hairs that leads down to his tail. He scratches through them gently, feels out the protruding bone at the base of Harry’s tail and the strong muscle that follows. Harry rolls his hips down, starting up a steady if slow rhythm as he fucks himself shallowly on Louis’ cock.

“So fucking good,” he whispers. Louis kisses the tip of his shoulder gently, oddly endeared. Harry’s tail wraps around his waist tighter, the tip flicking up and tickling over his chest. His heart stutters a little and he can’t even decide why.

There’s little room between them, not enough to move properly. Harry’s pressed up against him, holding him close; his hands cover Louis’ entire back. Every time he moves, he makes a little sound, something between a sigh and a whimper. His cock brushes over Louis’ belly and he clenches on Louis with every roll of his hips. It’s not enough to get Louis off, just pressure and heat and no friction, but it doesn’t really matter because just feeling Harry all around him is good enough for now. He doesn't know what's behind Harry's need to be close today, but he's happy to go along with it.

He keeps his eyes closed as he kisses up Harry’s neck and tucks his nose into the damp roots of Harry’s hair where the smell is strongest. It’s a habit he’s picked up from Harry sniffing him all the time, something he never cared about or even paid attention to before noticing how much it matters to Harry; now he’s so used to it that he has favourite spots to smell on Harry’s body. He scratches at the base of Harry’s tail. His teeth scrape over the sensitive skin of Harry's throat, raising goosebumps in their wake.

He feels it before he hears it, the vibrations that rise and fall with Harry’s shallow breaths. He presses Harry closer until he can feel them going through his chest as well. The rumble of Harry’s voice fills his ears. He takes a deep breath. He feels cocooned in the best way, as if wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold day. He laughs at himself; he’s never been this sappy during sex. He thinks it may be his version of purring.

Harry sits up, hands on Louis’ shoulders as he lifts off of Louis’ cock. His head falls back as he slowly sinks down again. He rolls his hips before moving up again. It takes him a few tries and a few pauses to get a real rhythm, but he does. His purring gets louder, breaking off into little mewls every time he grinds down. Louis keeps him steady with the hand still low on his back, the other running up and down his thigh, feeling the muscles work. He kisses over Harry’s collarbone, the vibrations of Harry’s purring making his lips tingle. His breathing matches Harry’s rhythm without his conscious decision. Harry’s tail loosens around his waist and drops to his hips as if Harry’s too preoccupied with everything that’s happening to keep it up. Harry puts his hand on the side of Louis’ neck, his touch light and gentle.

“Lou,” he whispers, brushing his lips over Louis’ hairline. Louis just hums in response. He reaches down between Harry’s arsecheeks, spreads them as much as he can. He touches his fingers to Harry’s rim, feels the stretch of it when he fucks up. A shiver runs down his spine. Harry freezes. “Fuck, yes,” he moans. His fingers tangle in the hair curling over Louis’ nape and he tugs on it hard. “Yes, fuck me,” he demands. His thighs are shaking as he holds himself up with nothing but the head of Louis’ cock still inside him. Louis presses his fingers to Harry’s rim; his heart starts beating faster when he realises he could easily push in if he really wanted to. He grips Harry’s hip and starts fucking him; it’s not the most comfortable position he’s had Harry in, hard on his back and a better abs workout than any routine he’s ever had, but it feels far too good to even think about that. He brings his fingers closer together, the rough skin and bumpy knuckles a completely different kind of feeling on his cock from the clench of Harry’s arse.

He tilts his head up and kisses Harry without even opening his eyes. When Harry purrs into his mouth, it makes him feel like his belly is vibrating too; it tickles, but not unpleasantly. He holds Harry steady as he speeds up. Harry’s hair is in his face, sticking to his temples. Harry kisses him back sloppily, all tongue and no finesse until he can feel spit running down his chin. He jolts a little every time Louis fucks up into him, seemingly unconcerned that his forehead bumps against Louis’ occasionally. His hand trails down Louis’ chest as he reaches between them and takes himself in hand. He starts meeting Louis’ thrusts, pushing down every time Louis fucks up into him. He’s purring so loudly, Louis can’t hear anything other than the deep rumble of his voice. He's not sure what finally makes the decision for him when he shoves Harry down on his back.

He grabs at Harry's thighs and pushes them up around his waist when he lies on top. Harry yelps in surprise, teeth sinking into Louis’ bottom lip and pulling on Louis’ hair. He recovers quickly, crossing his feet behind Louis’ back and pulling him closer. Louis holds himself up on his elbows. He pushes all the way in and grinds his hips against Harry’s arse, grinning when Harry’s eyes roll back. He can feel Harry’s knuckles brushing over his belly as Harry keeps stroking himself. He pulls out halfway and shoves back in hard.

“Oh, Jesus,” Harry moans.

“Louis is fine,” Louis replies breathlessly, driving into him again and watching his face for reaction. Harry scrunches up his nose, ears twitching and tail tapping over the bed.

“That’s a stupid joke,” he says, pausing to take a few short, noisy breaths when Louis fucks into him faster. “And you make it every fucking time.” Louis grins. He holds himself up on one arm, spreading his knees wider for balance. He watches Harry’s curls bounce a little as the bed starts to creak underneath them. He spares a brief thought to his laptop and the plastic bowl Harry had his snacks in; odds are that if they aren't already on the floor, they will be soon.

“And yet, you’re still fucking me,” he teases.

“Technically, you’re fucking me,” Harry replies, tightening his legs around Louis’ waist and tilting his hips up. He gasps at the change in the angle. “So shut up and _fuck me_.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very needy?”

It takes Harry a bit longer to respond this time; he arches his back and groans, hand speeding up over his cock. He yanks on Louis’ hair and mewls shakily. “Yeah,” he breathes and Louis doesn’t know if that’s a reply or a reaction. He gets a hand under Harry’s back. The sheets Harry’s lying on are already damp. Louis lifts him off the bed, tilting his arse up for easier access. He presses his face into Harry’s chest; he can no longer feel the steady vibrations of Harry’s purring, but he can smell the sweat and taste the salt of Harry’s skin, hear the cacophonic mixture of Harry’s moans and the obscene slap of skin on skin. He keeps his eyes closed and loses himself to the quick beat of Harry’s heart that he can feel under his cheek.

Harry scratches at the back of his neck, the gentle touch a contrast to how hard Louis is fucking him. He presses his heels into Louis’ back, his thighs squeezing Louis’ sides. He’s breathing hard, whining a little with every inhale. Louis knows those sounds, knows the way Harry tenses under him and how he seems to forget, for a while, to hold anything back. He kisses up Harry’s chest, licks up the sweat pooling in the dip of his throat and finds the spot on his neck that’s already bruised to sink his teeth into. He lifts himself up; it's always been his favourite part to watch Harry fall apart.

Harry’s nails sink into the back of his neck; he arches his back and curses under his breath when he comes. His eyes are shut tightly, brows drawn together and lips parted; he’s silent and the hand on his cock is still even as it kicks, striping over his chest. One of his ears twists around slowly, a bizarre detail Louis' long fallen in love with. Louis fucks him through it, doesn’t even slow down. He watches the way Harry rides out the orgasm, then slowly comes down, muscles relaxing and face smoothing out into a dopey smile. He kisses the corner of Harry’s lips.

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly, voice deep but barely audible. He wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders loosely. “Keep going, want you to come inside me.” Louis’ hips snap forward erratically. Harry’s fingers draw lazy patterns over his back and his legs fall lower to Louis’ hips. His breathing evens out slowly, only hitching a bit when Louis fucks in particularly hard. He tilts his head to the side, tries to kiss Louis properly; he ends up knocking their teeth together and bumping his nose over Louis’ cheek. He giggles.

The simple, easy pleasure Louis can feel in Harry’s every reaction gets to him. He buries himself inside one last time, comes with Harry’s name on his lips. He’s barely done when Harry starts purring underneath him. He collapses on top of Harry, head resting on Harry’s shoulder. It's sticky and messy, Harry's skin tacky with sweat and drying come, his cock soft against Louis' belly. The laugh Louis almost chokes on as he gulps down air might just be the endorphins or it might be the light, bubbling feeling in his tummy that he’s pretty sure he can blame on Harry’s stupid smile. Slowly, he lowers Harry back on the bed and shifts around until they’re both lying comfortably; it sends a few shocks of overwhelming pleasure up his spine when his cock twitches a few more times.

“Satisfied?” he asks, rolling his hips a few times while the oversensitivity still isn’t too much. Harry’s breath stutters. He wriggles around a bit, fingers flexing on Louis’ back.

“For now,” he says cheekily.

Louis lifts himself up on shaky arms to look at him. His heart is still beating too fast and he’s sure he looks like a proper mess but he still makes it a point to roll his eyes. “Is this like a weird cat thing? I thought your mating season was in February.”

Harry makes a face, nose scrunching up and one ear twisting down unhappily. “Eat me,” he replies.

“See, that’s what I mean! I'm not even done here yet and you're already asking for more.”

“You’re literally still inside me,” Harry deadpans, as if Louis somehow forgot.

“Precisely my point."

"That’s easy to fix,” Harry points out.

"Alright, then," Louis declares loudly, trying not to laugh as he pulls out a bit. He’s getting soft and it’s getting uncomfortable, but he knows Harry likes it when he stays inside as long as he can. He lets Harry pull him back down and wrap himself around him. Harry’s tail tickles when it curls around the both of them.

“No,” he says. Then, gently, “Stay.” Louis nuzzles into his neck, takes a deep inhale of his smell.

“Okay,” he agrees simply.

*

Harry picks up the ball that rolls up to his feet. He hands it back to the kitten in front of him, leaning forward slightly so they’re more level. His tails swishes closer to the girl, as if reaching out. They exchange a few words that Louis can’t hear until she giggles, her mouth covered with one hand. He pets her head, her fluffy orange ears twitching almost in sync with his, and then, with a wave, she skips off. His eyes follow her for a while before he starts walking back, still smiling.

Louis watches him approach. Harry is good with kids, approachable and easy to get along with. More importantly, children make him happy. It doesn’t matter how much of a rush he’s in, how tired or grumpy, he’s smiling and endlessly soft as soon as he sees a child. Louis knows that feeling. He leans up for a kiss before even letting Harry settle in next to him on the bench. Harry still smells a little of industrial disinfectant and old people even if he’s obviously showered before changing. It used to bother Louis a lot more; now he’s as used to it as he is to the heat of Harry’s body next to his in bed. He nudges Harry’s knee with his.

“Hey, um. This has pretty much been a given all along,” he starts, then pauses to clear his throat. There is no reason to be nervous, he tells himself. He knows how he feels when he looks at Harry and has little doubt Harry feels the same. He has no idea why the words are coming out of him now of all times when this conversation has probably been a long time coming and he may not have picked the best or most intimate setting to have it, but he knows it won’t end badly. Still, his heart beats so hard he genuinely wonders if Harry can hear it. He clears his throat again, looks away from Harry’s unflinching stare and down to where he has absently started to pet Harry’s tail in his lap. “You know that-- You know that you’re it for me, right? This is a shared-housing-from-whenever-you’re-ready-until-we’re-ninety, embarrassinly-elaborate-wedding, endless-devotion, six-kids-and-counting forever kind of deal for me,” he gets out around the tightness in his throat.

Harry’s tail jumps, tapping against Louis’ thigh a few times. “If that’s your proposal speech, then you’d better have a _very_ expensive ring to go with it,” he says breezily, like Louis hasn’t just said something earth-shattering. In a way, he supposes he hasn’t. It’s not something new he’s just realised, not by any stretch of the imagination, and Harry must know that. It’s just the first time he’s put it in so many words, the first time it’s out there. He doesn’t feel that different.

He pokes Harry in the ribs making him mewl and squirm. “I’d like to see you do better then,” he teases once Harry has his hand securely held in both of his own.

“You just might,” Harry says simply, linking their hands together and tracing over the base of Louis’ ringfinger. Louis just rests his head on Harry’s shoulder and lets the fluttering warmth in his chest grow until he can’t stop smiling.

*

Louis finds it quite by accident. He’s looking for an old photo his mum asked for, digging through cupboards and drawers indiscriminately, no longer sure which ones were supposed to be for his things and which for Harry’s when he lifts one lid and it’s just there. It’s a nondescript box, dark laminated cardboard with no distinct pattern, not outwardly special in any way. The inside is cushioned, lined with what looks to Louis like satin.

And in the centre, a collar.

It’s not entirely unlike the one Harry had on when Louis met him, a plain wide leather band with simple metal closings and a pendant at the front. The blue of it is so dark it’s almost black. When Louis picks it up, it’s still stiff, worn once or twice if ever at all. He runs his fingers over it gently. The pendant is a perfect circle of light white metal, matte with an engraving. It’s not the elaborate cursive _H_ Louis still expects; instead, his initials stare back at him in bold print. He swipes his thumb over them.

He’s not sure how to feel about this. Seeing Harry collared is not something he’s used to anymore. It would be different this time, he knows, because this is a collar Harry has obviously chosen himself, clearly custom made and one he probably had to save for. It still makes him a little uneasy. He remembers what he thought the first time he noticed Harry was wearing a collar; it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to think about similar assumptions being made about his relationship with Harry. On an instinctive level, the idea of Harry belonging to him is appealing, sends a flurry of flutters through his belly and a tingle up his spine. On a more rational one, he understands the implications of that.

He takes the collar with him when he rejoins Harry on the balcony. Harry’s still napping, bars casting shadowy lines over his face and bare chest and sun making his skin glisten, dark tattoos standing out starkly against the pale canvas. Louis crawls over him and settles on his lap, poking his belly to wake him up. The collar feels like it’s burning a hole in his palm.

Harry wakes up slowly, fussing a little as he blinks against the light. He doesn’t take long to catch on to Louis on top of him. A smile spreads over his face immediately, ears perking up and cheeks flushing a little pinker. “Hi,” he rasps, voice deep and sleep-rough.

Like every time he sees Harry’s immediate reaction to him, Louis forgets everything else for a moment. He leans over to place a gentle kiss to Harry’s lips and nuzzle into his cheek. “Hello, kitten,” he says.

“Why are you waking me up?” Harry asks. Louis can hear the pout in his voice. He takes a deep breath and sits back up, holding the collar in front of himself.

“I found this while I was looking for something,” he says, leaving it up to Harry where the conversation goes next. He notices Harry’s eyes going between his face and the collar a few times. Harry bites his lip. His breathing has sped up.

He sits up so their eyes are level and wraps his hand around the collar over Louis’. “I want to start wearing one again,” he says. “Just around the flat for now, with you, maybe friends and family.” He pauses to take a breath, then looks at Louis, jaw set in determination. “I like wearing a collar,” he explains. “I like feeling… like I belong. To _you_.”

“I don’t own you, H,” Louis replies. Though the thought sends a pleasurable jolt through him, he doesn’t want to risk any misunderstandings on this. Harry’s grasp on the morality of what he’s suggesting has always seemed lax to Louis, his understanding of ownership likely permanently defined by what he remembers as a positive experience. It’s something they will probably never agree on, somewhere they might never truly understand each other.

Harry squeezes his hand. “I know that. I know I can… do what I want, go where I want, live how I want.” He pauses. “I know I’m my own person,” he says calmly. He sits, muscles flexing under the skin as he pulls himself up so they’re eye-to-eye. He puts a hand on Louis’ waist and rests their foreheads together. “But I like feeling _yours_. And this gives me that.” He guides Louis’ hand up to his neck until the leather presses against his skin. “I think, even if you tried,” he says, brushing his thumb over Louis’ throat, “you wouldn’t understand because we come from different places and we see it in different ways. So I need you to trust me. That I know what it looks like, and I know how you’re thinking of it, and that’s not what it means to me.”

Louis looks at him, the lines of his face blurred from how close they are. It’s something he’s tried to do from the start, support Harry in gaining independence, in making his own decisions and building his own life, and a part of that is trusting Harry to choose for himself. He sighs, closes his eyes. Then, slowly, he wraps the collar around Harry’s neck and fastens it blindly at the back. He can feel Harry’s shallow breaths on his lips, hears him start purring the moment the collar is locked in place. Despite everything he knows he has to say, it still sends a thrill through him. Harry’s hand is still on the side of his neck, thumb pressed under his Adam’s apple. He imagines if their roles were reversed, he’d feel different; the thought of Harry putting a collar around _his_ neck, about wearing something that so obviously marks him as Harry’s, appeals to him. But he’s not Harry and it’s different for someone like him. Still, one day, he thinks he would like to try, maybe get a little closer to understanding why this means so much to Harry, if it truly is just how he was shaped by his childhood and the lingering trauma, or maybe if it’s just who Harry is. If maybe it’s a mix of both.

Harry leans in and kisses him, slow and gentle, like they have all the time in the world. “Thank you,” he whispers against Louis' lips.

Louis pulls back just enough to look at him. He’s grown so much since that night he showed up at Louis’ door; his hair falls over his shoulders now, he’s filled out so there’s softness around his hips that Louis can sink his fingers into and his skin is littered with random tattoos. He looks almost like a different person, more grown up and yet somehow younger, happy and confident. The collar fits around his neck perfectly, loose enough that it won’t chafe but tight enough that it cannot be mistaken for anything other than what it is. The stark contrast of the deep navy blue of the collar against the pale skin of his throat is stunning, a line the eye is drawn to immediately. The pendant sits in the hollow of his throat, unobtrusive and elegant, _LT_ clearly visible without standing out too much.

Louis puts a hand on Harry’s chest to feel the soothing vibrations of his purring. He runs his thumb over the edge of the collar, tracing where it meets the skin. “You’re welcome.”

 

_prospect, n. - anticipation; expectation; a looking forward_

 

 

When the doorbell rings, he can still taste Harry on his tongue. He wipes a hand over his mouth hastily and gets to his feet. His knees are killing him, the hard kitchen tile unforgiving. “It can’t be two yet, can it?” he asks as he tucks Harry back in and zips his jeans up as quickly as he can. The doorbell rings again. This time Harry jumps too.

“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed and hair messy; his knuckles are white around the fork he is still gripping. A few strands of hair stick to the sweat beading on his forehead. He looks at Louis with wide panicked eyes. “I can’t meet your mum like this,” he says, voice much higher than usual. The doorbell ring once more. Louis looks between the door and Harry. He should probably be nervous, but all he can do is laugh; there’s a strange sense of detachment from the situation that makes it simply… funny. Harry smacks him. “Don’t laugh!” he whines. “What do we _do_?”

Louis looks him over. There is no way his mum won’t be able to tell what they were doing. Another bark of laughter bubbles out of him. He’s sure he doesn’t look that much better either. He runs a hand through his hair and sweeps his fringe to the side. “Okay,” he says, still trying not to laugh. “We’re all adults here, nothing to be weird about.”

Harry purses his lips. “Your parents are at the door and there’s come in your beard,” he says flatly, reaching out and running his thumb over Louis’ jaw. He looks a bit lost for a few seconds and then bursts out laughing as well. “I actually cannot believe this is happening,” he sighs as a knock comes from the door. Louis shakes his head fondly; he leans in and presses a quick kiss to Harry’s lips.

“Relax, you’ll be fine,” he says.

“Don’t kiss your mum with that mouth, you taste like come.”

“Disgusting, thank you,” Louis replies without moving away. He pries the fork out of Harry’s hand and pokes Harry’s side with it lightly before dropping it in the sink. “Clean up,” he says, “I’ll buy you some time.” He straightens his shirt and adjusts his jeans as he heads for the door; he thinks he looks presentable all things considered. He rubs his hands together.

“Lou,” Harry calls quietly. Louis turns around.

Harry’s still standing in place, biting his lip nervously. His tail swishes behind him almost knocking over a plate. He has a hand at his throat, the tips of his fingers tucked into the collar around it. Louis inhales sharply. He forgot. Though Harry only wears it around the flat, it’s somehow become a part of him and seeing him with it is what Louis is used to now. His mum won’t be. “You can keep it if you want,” he says anyway. He knows his mum might misinterpret it, but he also knows how much comfort it brings Harry to have his collar on; he’s willing to risk an awkward conversation for that.

Harry looks like he’s considering it for a moment. He runs his fingers along the edge of the leather, eyes unfocused. Slowly, as if he’s still deciding, he shakes his head. “No, it’s alright.”

Louis comes up to him and reaches up to the back of his neck. He undoes the fastenings easily even without looking. He’s the only one doing it, the only one who takes the collar off and locks it back into place, though Harry can do it himself. He’s not sure why that is. A knock comes again; Louis ignores it. He runs his thumb gently down the line of skin that’s exposed as he removes the collar, finds it slightly damp with sweat. He leans in and places a kiss at the dip of Harry’s throat. He can feel how hard Harry’s heart is beating. “There,” he says softly.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, come on.”

Louis rolls the collar tightly on his way to the door and puts it back in the box he keeps in the hallway now. He looks over his shoulder; Harry is leaning over the sink, his hair falling around his face in loose curls and his hair tie around his wrist. Louis rubs his hands together and reaches for the doorknob, feeling for the first time today a slight weight of nerves on his chest. It’s been a long time coming, Harry meeting his mum, and he’s been looking forward to it; not having his mum’s explicit approval of someone who means as much to him as Harry does is strange for him. She’ll like Harry, Louis knows that. There’s really no need to be nervous. Still, his heart beats a little faster as he opens the door.

“Mum, Dan, hi,” he greets with as wide smile a smile as he can pull off. It turns a lot more real the moment he sees them standing in front of him; he hasn’t seen his mum in too long and it hits him, suddenly, how much he’s missed her. “You’re early,” he comments. He’s careful to keep the door half-closed, stay in the way for as long as he can without making it awkward. He can hear the tap in the kitchen still running.

“You know I hate being late,” Jay says. She hugs him as she steps in, holding on a little too tightly. He hugs back just the same. He has an odd moment of detachment when he realises that, although she still smells familiar, she doesn’t smell like comfort.

“Of course,” he sighs as he gives Dan a brief hug.

“Of course,” Dan agrees. “We’re not too early, I hope? Smells like something is still cooking.”

“Oh, shit,” Louis whispers under his breath, realising neither of them have checked on the roast Harry put in the oven ever since he grabbed Harry’s hips, spun him around, and dropped to his knees. He feels his cheeks flame up.

“Everything alright, darling?” his mum asks.

“Yes, of course, I’m sure Harry’s keeping an eye on it,” he makes up on the spot. He can’t hear water anymore so he might not even be lying.

“How very domestic,” Dan says. Louis leans back against the wall and shrugs. He knows it’s probably supposed to be a tease, but all he feels is warm. As if seeing them for the first time, he watches Dan take his mum’s jacket and hang it in the hallway, the way he runs his hand over her arm almost unthinkingly, the curl of his tail around her leg; there’s a casual intimacy in the way they interact, an obvious fondness in how they treat each other, a certain something that’s unmistakeable. Louis wonders if that’s what other people see when they look at him and Harry. He hopes it is.

“I can’t complain,” he says honestly.

“Oh, well, now I’m even more excited to meet this boy,” Jay teases. “Someone who can get _you_ to be domestic—“

“What are you talking about, I’ve always been domestic—“

“You’ve always been a _romantic_ , dear, there’s a difference,” Jay corrects, only slightly patronising. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Come on then,” he says, guiding them towards the kitchen. They’ve both been to his flat before and though he hasn’t really changed anything about it, he still feels like it’s somehow different; he almost wants to show them around once more. Even with Harry no longer living there, Louis sees evidence of him everywhere, from the differently arranged souvenirs by the TV to several new blankets conveniently placed in almost every corner. He wonders if they see it too.

They find Harry pretty much right where Louis left him; he’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen with his hands behind his back and his head bowed. His tail is restless, his ears pressed down a little and his shoulders tense. He’s still flushed, though much less than before, and his hair is pulled back in a bun once more. The few strands that have fallen out to frame his face are wet. Louis feels suddenly nervous, heart beating faster as he steps up to Harry. When he puts his hand on Harry’s back it’s almost like the first time all over again; he was just a kid still, seventeen and only just beginning to understand it would always be an Aiden or a Matt or a Tom that he brings back home, with sweaty palms and shaky breaths that did absolutely nothing to cover up the sheer terror at how monumental the moment felt. He runs his hand down Harry’s back, untangles his fingers and takes his hand. Harry’s ears perk up immediately. He looks sideways at Louis, nostrils flaring as he takes in a deep breath. He smiles, blinking slowly as if he’s waking up from a dream. His shoulders relax. And just like that, the memory dissipates around Louis; this isn’t like the first time, isn’t like any other time, because he’s never felt like this, like the Earth stands still for the dimple in Harry’s cheek, like Harry’s hand in his is what anchors him to this world, like the tickle of Harry’s tail as it wraps around his arm takes away everything but the calm certainty that this is the last time. He leans in and brushes his lips over Harry’s gently.

“Hey, kitten,” he says, voice soft. Harry squeezes his hand. “Right! Harry, this is my mum, Jay, and her husband, Dan,” he says. “Mum, Dan, this is—“ He pauses. Whatever qualifier he puts there feels cheap and insufficient; Harry is more to him than a boyfriend, closer than a partner, not yet anything as formal as a spouse. Louis doesn’t have a word for what Harry is to him, not one he cares to share here and now. So he ends up with a simple, “This is Harry.”

“Hi,” Harry says, drawing the word out. His tail tightens around Louis’ arm; he must still be nervous. “Um, Mrs. Deakin and Mr. Deakin?” he tacks on awkwardly.

“Oh, please, darling, Jay is perfectly alright,” Jay says. “Nobody calls me Mrs. Deakin, especially not family.” It’s not a word Louis associates with Harry, Harry is something different from family to him, something more, but he knows it’s one that holds a lot of meaning for his mum and one she doesn’t use lightly. He runs his thumb over Harry’s knuckles reassuringly.

“Jay, then. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Harry says; his voice is steady and his smile genuine if a little tentative. The grip of his tail on Louis’ arm is not as vice-tight as Louis knows it can be. He’s obviously still nervous, his palm sweaty where it’s pressed to Louis’ and his ears pushed back a little, but he’s holding his own. Louis is proud of him.

“It’s very nice to meet you too,” Jay says. She touches Harry’s shoulder briefly, as if instinctively conscious of his wariness of physical contact with new people though Louis hasn’t explicitly told her anything. He expects Harry to leave it at that, but Harry surprises him, taking half a step forward and leaning in for a hug. He buries his nose in Jay’s hair, doesn’t even flinch when her arms wrap around him. His fingers are still tangled with Louis’. When he finally steps back, he seems calmer than before. Louis feels both a warm fondness spreading through his chest and an unexpected tug of irrational jealousy low in his belly. He pulls Harry closer to him.

“I’m assuming, from the lack of an actual table, that we’ll be sitting at the island again?” Dan asks, pointedly looking around. Louis thinks, not for the first time, that Dan is either very clueless or very good at reading social cues.

“I told you, I like the flow of the room without one,” he says, an excuse he’s used ever since he moved in and Liam made him choose between a dining table and a coffee table to bring with him. He’s not surprised when his mum just shakes her head in resignation. He nods at the kitchen island. “Please, sit, we’ll have everything ready in a minute.”

It’s a feat of skill and a testament to how used to Harry he is that he manages to take the plates down with Harry’s tail still wrapped around his arm while Harry checks on the meat. Over the clanking of the dishes and the hiss of steam, the heavy fall of feet and the scrape of chairs, he can hear his mum’s voice as she talks quietly to Dan; there’s no screaming children, no distracted sisters, no cartoons in the background, the food isn’t takeaway and the plates aren’t paper and the flat isn’t a mess. It’s a family dinner between adults, one Louis is hosting and one he’s organised. He’s never felt more grown up in his life.

Harry nudges him with an elbow. “I like your mum,” he says.

“Hm? Yeah, she likes you too. I told you everything would be fine.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re always right,” he drawls. His cheeks flush pink and his ears twitch as he adds, “She smells nice.” Louis’ eyebrows shoot up so quickly he thinks they might fly off. Harry shoves at his shoulder. “ _Ew_ , Lou, that is _not_ what I meant,” he says, making a funny face. He glances back over his shoulder and shrugs a little. “It’s just… Mum, you know?”

Somehow, Louis gets that. His mum has always been _mum_ to him, encouragement and security and support when he most needed it; he doesn’t need to have Harry’s sense of smell to know the comfort of her hugs. “Yeah, I know,” he says, running a hand down Harry’s arm. Harry’s entire face softens. He looks over to Jay and Dan before leaning in for a quick kiss. His ears flop around quickly as he pulls back.

“Come on, I’m hungry,” he says quickly, taking the plates out of Louis’ hands. Though he moves away, his tail stays wrapped around Louis’ wrist, as if he needs to have some kind of contact even now. Louis manoeuvres the pots and pans single-handedly.

It occurs to him that family might mean even more to Harry than it does to him. Harry doesn’t have a mum to give him hugs or sisters that he can introduce Louis to, doesn’t have a house he knows he’s welcome to if anything happens or other people he can count on unconditionally; the odds of him ever finding his biological parents or potential siblings, or even running into the people he grew up with are slim at best and it’s likely the only family he’ll get to call his is whatever he makes with Louis. He doesn’t belong anywhere the way he belongs with Louis. Though he still only rarely talks about that, though Louis will gladly try to be enough, he can’t imagine how hard that must be.

He smiles when his mum looks at him. With Harry, he’s happy to share everything, even this.

*

Louis is still just hovering on the edge of being asleep when his phone starts vibrating. He ignores it at first, hoping it will turn out to be a text, but when the vibrations don’t stop, he digs his phone out from under his pillow and answers it blindly.

“Yeah?”

Harry’s voice under a thin layer of static fills his ear. “Oh, shit. I forgot you’d had an early morning. Did I wake you?” His words come even slower than usual, vowels lazy and blurring together. He sounds tipsy and giggly and a little breathless. In the background, Louis can hear a distant rumble of traffic and the whistle of the wind.

He turns on his back and rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Going home?” he asks instead of answering Harry’s question.

“Yeah, sorry, I completely forgot about the time. I would’ve called sooner, but the pub was really loud,” Harry apologises. He must have stopped walking because he sounds steadier now even though he’s still slurring a little. Louis imagines him standing in a dark street somewhere, alone on the sidewalk, leaning against a wall and smiling dopily at nothing in particular. He scratches over his jaw absently, the scrape of his fingers through his beard loud in the silence around him. It’s been a busy few days for the both of them, work and separate social lives getting in the way of spending time together; it’s been four nights since he last fell asleep curled around Harry and he’s suddenly aware of a weight on his chest. He’s glad Harry called.

“It’s alright, I wasn’t really asleep.”

“Liar,” Harry teases. “I can hear it in your voice.”

Louis laughs. “ _Anyway_ ,” he says pointedly, “did you have fun?”

“Yeah. Yes, I did. Did you make your deadline?”

“Of course,” Louis snorts. “When have I ever been anything but excellent at time management? Don’t answer that.” He takes a deep breath while Harry laughs on the other end of the line. It’s ridiculous that he feels like he misses this, a combination of the late hour and exhaustion making him sappy; Harry calls him more than once every day, spends most of his free time on the balcony so Louis can look up from his laptop and find him there, he stopped by only hours ago and brought dinner, there’s nothing _wrong_ between them. And yet, Louis feels like he’s missing something. He lets the silence stretch while the thoughts drift through his head, unclear and muddled with sleep that still clings to him. There’s comfort in just hearing Harry breathe into the receiver.

“Lou?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

A surprised laughter bubbles out of Louis. “And here I thought I was in a weird mood,” he says. He puts a hand low on his belly, feels it still shaking a little with giggles.

“Hey, I’m drunk,” Harry replies easily. “What’s your excuse?”

“I get weirdly philosophical late at night?” Louis tries.

“No, you don’t, you get extra cuddly,” Harry replies immediately. Louis can practically feel the flutter of his belly under his hand.

“Well, since there’s no one to cuddle with me…” He lets the sentence trail off into silence. His breathing falls naturally into the same rhythm as Harry’s. He closes his eyes, feeling unpleasantly heavy and empty at the same time.

“So?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you want to be when you were younger?” Harry prompts. He still sounds a little spacey though no less determined for it. Somewhere close by, several voices Louis doesn’t recognise grow louder and then fade away. On the street outside somebody is walking a dog that barks right underneath his window.

“Are we talking realistically or in an ideal world?” he asks.

It takes Harry a few moments to answer. “Realistically.”

Louis takes a deep breath. “A teacher,” he says, thinking back to the time when he would try to make organised lessons out of helping his sisters with their homework. He can still see it, himself in front of a classroom full of children, all of them looking at him with wide eyes and a thousand questions. He laughs a little at himself. “Quite far away from where I ended up, innit?”

“And ideally?”

“Acting. Or singing, maybe,” Louis replies. He pulls his shirt up and scratches at his tummy. He has no idea where this conversation is going.

“Or musicals,” Harry suggests. “Best of both worlds.”

“Or that.”

“You could still try.”

“Maybe,” Louis allows. He likes what he does now, likes the freedom that comes with working from home, the fun of coming up with new code, the fact that he doesn’t have to organise his life around set office hours. He likes that he earns good money without putting in too much effort daily. It might not be what he thought he wanted when he was a child, but he likes it now. “What about you?” he asks when Harry doesn’t offer anything in return.

“I think, at some point, I must have wanted something,” Harry says slowly as if he’s still mulling it over. “I wanted to be a singer whenever I heard a song I really liked, and I wanted to be an actor every time there was a good movie on TV, and I wanted to be famous because I’d wear pretty clothes and never have to worry about anything.” He pauses. It’s a few deep breaths before he continues, quieter than before. “I wanted to write. I felt like I had things to say sometimes.” He sounds like he wants to say more, but instead he just laughs. “Not very realistic, is it?”

“You could still try,” Louis reminds, one corner of his lips lifting up in a half-smile. He remembers how uncomfortable Harry was backstage at the concert Lottie took them to, how the music was so loud he ended up having to walk out and take a break about halfway through, how he tensed up when people brushed past him even in the mostly empty VIP area. He also remembers Harry singing as they walked home, the deep rumble of his voice and the ease with which he hit the notes as he stumbled down the streets high on adrenaline. He thinks, if Harry really wanted to, he could be a superstar. He also thinks Harry doesn’t really want to.

“Maybe,” Harry returns. “I don’t think it was ever really anything more than a dream though, a spur of the moment kind of thing that everyone has from time to time.”

“Okay,” Louis says carefully. It’s probably too late to be having this conversation, but he doesn’t want to leave it unfinished; there’s something Harry wants to say, he can _feel_ it, something all this reminiscing is leading up to and he wants to know what it is. He waits, drumming his fingers on his belly. Harry will get it out eventually.

He’s walking again, the muffled sound of his footsteps just barely carrying over the static. “Nick is moving to London,” he says finally, an apparent non-sequitur to Louis. “He’s found a new job.” Louis can practically feel the flutter of anticipation in his belly under his hand. He hums questioningly. “He’s offered to take me with him.”

Louis’ heart stops for a few beats. He’s suddenly a lot more awake than a few seconds ago. “What, now?”

“There’s a special home opening in London, the first of its kind here. For cats all ages, something like a care centre, a hospital and a shelter in one,” Harry hurries to explain, stumbling over his words. “They’re looking for nurses and doctors of all kinds, they even offer to help with completing your education if you need it.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “They asked Nick to recommend someone and he mentioned me,” he finishes quietly.

Louis feels a little like he’s floating. He listens to every word, but the entire time it’s like he can only hear it from a distance. For a while nothing computes but the tone of Harry’s voice, the obvious excitement in it mixed in with something like worry. The pieces of the puzzle take a while to fall into place and until they do Louis is almost certain he’s not breathing. Afterwards isn’t much better either. “You want to move to London?” he asks, just to make sure that he has a reason to freak out before he starts doing it needlessly.

“I want—“ For a few incredibly long seconds, Louis things the line’s gone dead. Then Harry finally gathers his words. “I want to consider that option,” he says very slowly, as if still weighing his words even as they are rolling off his tongue.

Louis sighs and rubs his forehead. He thinks, for the first time tonight, that he shouldn’t have answered his phone. Still, he’s not sure if he’d be reacting any better well rested and fully awake either. It’s a lot to take in, is the thing, the idea that Harry wants to leave. London isn’t that far away, barely a two-hour train ride, and they can always call and text and Skype, but it wouldn’t be the same. He’s not sure what Harry moving to London would mean for them as a couple. His heart skips a beat when he realises that. He wishes he could just be happy that Harry has found something he’s interested in, but the truth is that he’s selfish and he wants Harry to stay with him.

“Lou?” Harry asks. He sounds tentative like he hasn’t with Louis in a while. Louis snaps out of it.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just… thinking. You want this job, don’t you?”

Harry takes a minute before replying, “Yeah, I think so.” It takes all the self-control Louis has not to say something stupid or do something dramatic, like burying his head in the pillow and screaming his frustrations out.

“And we would…?” He lets the question trail off, unsure how to finish it and unwilling to voice the worst that his mind has come up with. He puts a hand on his chest, almost as if to check if he’s breathing because it feels like he isn’t. He’s too tired to decide if he’s overreacting; he wishes they weren’t doing this over the phone because he wants to see Harry’s face so he can judge his reactions, touch him to make sure that he’s still there.

“I was hoping you would come with me,” Harry says simply. A pleasant warmth spreads through Louis’ belly; the next breath he takes feels like it fills him with something light and buoyant, the next exhale like it takes away some of the tension out of his muscles. “We could rent a flat together,” Harry continues, excitement slurring his words again, “somewhere close to my work so I can walk. Something we both like.”

For a moment, Louis gets lost in the fantasy of it. It’s a nice thought and a big step and a pretty picture. But it’s not that simple. “My life is here, H,” he says. “I have a job here, practically all my friends live here, I’ve been here for years. I _like_ it here.”

“I know,” Harry sighs. “I know and I get it and if you really _want_ to stay here, we’ll work something out with that; I can commute or we can try long distance or… something,” he says quickly. Louis can sense a _but_ coming. “But Lou… This can be a good thing for us.”

Louis takes a deep breath. His heart is beating fast and he’s not sure if it’s excitement or anxiety. He can feel a headache building behind his temples. He squeezes his eyes shut. He’s had no reason to seriously think about leaving Manchester in years; he’d have to look for a new a job, a new place to live, new people and places to go out, all the things he already has here. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing, but it’s not something he’s had to worry about in a long time. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of him; he feels years younger all of a sudden, a small town kid navigating life in a big city on his own for the first time. He remembers the excitement and the fear that came with it, the same nauseating mess of emotions he can feel brewing under his skin now. He runs his hand absently through his fringe, working out the few knots he finds.

“I don’t _have_ to take the job,” Harry points out. It doesn’t sound like an accusation and Louis believes every word of it, but it’s not something he would ever ask. Besides, somewhere in the back of his mind, he already has an answer.

“I need to think about this,” he says instead. “When does Nick need an answer?”

“Not for a few days. And I wouldn’t need to be there for a few more weeks anyway,” Harry replies, words slightly distorted. Louis can imagine him tugging on his bottom lip, probably suppressing a smile. He thinks they both know, deep down, that he’s just buying himself some time. He thinks they both know he’s already made his decision.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s… okay.”

“Lou?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly, as if it’s a secret. Louis turns on his side and hides his face in the pillow, inexplicably shy even with no one around to see him. The bedding smells like lavender, clean sheets and pillowcases he put on a few days ago with no trace of Harry on them. He pulls the covers over his head.

He’s not sure he can fall asleep again. His mind is racing with a million different scenarios unfolding and collapsing and reshaping behind his eyelids; he feels restless even though his limbs are heavy with exhaustion, drums his fingers over his phone and straightens out the folds of the sheets blindly for something to do. He can hear Harry’s breathing, the steady, quick rhythm of his steps, the whisper of the wind outside. He tries to focus on that, but the giddiness building inside him makes that difficult.

“Asleep?” Harry asks, his voice barely loud enough to carry.

Louis snorts. “After that? As if.” The pause that follows is so long he almost gets so lost in his thoughts he forget he’s even on the phone.

Then, “Can I come over?”

Louis grins. “Yeah. Yeah, you can come over.”

*

“I actually cannot believe you’re leaving us,” Zayn says, his voice echoing through the empty street.

Louis rolls his eyes. “We’re not _leaving_ you, stop being so dramatic.” Harry giggles in his ear, damp breath ghosting over Louis’ sweaty neck.

“You’re one to talk,” he slurs.

“Bite me,” Louis replies unthinkingly. Harry hums and noses down his neck, sniffing him. He pauses when he gets to a spot he likes, kisses it. Then sinks his teeth into it. Louis barely suppresses a moan. He’s already half hard, horny from the few hits he shared with Zayn earlier and the way Harry planted himself on his lap possessively afterwards. He runs his hand up Harry’s thigh, thumbs absently at the folds of his jeans that frame the obvious bulge between his legs. He’s feeling reckless, thoughts lazy from the weed and skin tingling pleasantly everywhere Harry touches him. He tugs on Harry’s hair, unsurprised when it makes Harry start purring quietly. He barely registers Liam kicking him in the shin. He can’t fight back without unbalancing Harry from his lap so he looks up, grins at Liam over Harry’s shoulder and flips him off. Liam throws his head back as he laughs.

“Gonna be weird not having you two around,” Niall says.

Harry laughs, the breath of it tickling over the shell of Louis’ ear. “Are you trying to guilt us into staying? Because I’m gonna need you to buy us out of the lease we signed then.”

“Uh-uh, nope, you two are moving out of here,” Zayn says, his accent stronger than usual. He looks up at Liam. “This is our flat now.”

“Thank God,” Niall grumbles. “I was getting seriously tired of hearing the two of you in the middle of the night.”

Louis barely follows the conversation. He rests his head on Harry’s shoulder and traces the lines of Zayn’s profile with his eyes, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the flutter of his lashes when he takes a hit from the joint, the curve of his throat when he tilts his head up to blow the smoke out; he gets distracted by Liam uncrossing his arms and leaning back to look down the street when a car approaches. Liam’s fingers curl over the railing right next to the pane of smudged glass that has a crack running all the way down its middle and all Louis can think about is that morning when he woke up alone and stumbled half-asleep between the boxes filled with all their belongings and littering Harry’s flat, when he found Harry resting with his elbows on the railing and his head thrown back, naked and bathing in the pinkish light of the rising sun, when Harry kissed him gently and fucked him hard, bent over the railing on shaky legs while the neighbourhood was slowly waking up around them, when he came all over that same pane of glass with Harry’s fingers around his cock and Harry’s teeth in his neck and Harry’s hair tickling over his back and Harry’s cock buried in his arse and a middle-aged maths teacher seconds away from looking at them as she made her morning tea in his old kitchen. He licks his lips. As if on instinct his thumb slips under the leather of Harry’s collar; Harry cuts off mid-sentence, the grip of his fingers on Louis’ arm tightening.

“I don’t want to know,” Liam says before the silence stretches too long. Louis laughs with the rest of them, but Harry just squirms closer and hides his face in Louis’ neck, lips pressed to his pulse point and nose tucked behind his ear. He’s purring again.

Niall clears his throat. “So, last night in Manchester. Any plans?”

“Oh yeah, plenty. As soon as we kick you lot out, we’re throwing a party for all the seniors that fawn over Harry at work and _then_ we’re having marathon sex in every room of the flat and leaving the clean up to Zayn,” Louis says sarcastically. Zayn throws a package of rolling paper at his head.

“I’d better not find any dirty underwear behind a sofa or something,” he warns.

“I can’t promise anything,” Louis says just to be a shit. The reality is that both he and Harry have gone over the flat with a fine-tooth comb more than once during moments of weakness when the stress of uprooting their whole lives got too much and the only productive way to get rid of the nervous energy and the antsy feeling crawling under their skins became packing and then repacking and finally checking every nook and cranny at least twice. “We do seem to have misplaced that one pair of knickers somewhere, but you can keep those,” he teases. “We both look better in pink than white anyway.”

“Yes, I do seem to recalling seeing a few lacy numbers back in the day,” Liam replies gamely.

Harry squeezes Louis’ arm painfully and squirms in his lap. He sniffs his way up Louis’ neck and nips at his ear. “Mine,” he whispers, grinding down on Louis’ cock. He smells like the awful catnip and pot mix Niall got especially for him. Louis tried it when Harry offered, tasted the bitter taste of it on Harry’s lips until he kissed it away; if he never has to be anywhere near it ever again, it’ll be too soon, but he’s glad Harry got to try it. Regular weed just makes him irritable and hungry. The pliant, touchy, smiley mess he is right now is a lot preferable. Louis runs a hand down his back and kisses his cheek.

“Of course, kitten,” he agrees. Next to them Zayn makes gagging noises.

“I’m going to miss this,” Niall declares.

*

Louis props himself up on one elbow and puts a hand over the butterfly tattooed on Harry’s belly. Usually he likes to feel the vibrations in Harry’s chest where they’re stronger, but the skin there is still red and irritated, tacky with ointment that covers a lot more than just the newly inked birds. He tilts his head to the side to look at them at a better angle, absently running his thumb over the edge of the butterfly he already has memorised.

Harry’s nose scrunches up. “Tickles,” he complains.

“Sorry, love,” Louis says with a grin, running his thumb gently over the same spot again to make Harry pout. He leans forward and places a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. “Thought you were still asleep.”

“I am,” Harry replies grumpily at the same time as he snakes an arm around Louis’ waist and pulls him closer. He buries his nose in Louis’ hair and takes a deep breath. Louis tangles their legs together and settles down with his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, mindful of every touch. He won’t fall asleep again, but he’s happy to just lie there for a while longer, wrapped up in Harry’s warmth and listening to him purr. He kisses over Harry’s shoulder and neck, nudging the leather strap of his new collar up so he can nuzzle at the warm skin underneath. “My back is killing me,” Harry says out of the blue.

“I told you naps on the floor were a bad idea.”

“Yes, well, good for you,” Harry returns, pinching Louis’ hip. His tail tickles up the inside of Louis’ leg. “It’s nice here. Sunny.”

Louis shrugs. “Suffer, then,” he says, poking at Harry’s ribs. Harry grabs his hand and rolls on top of him, straddling him. He pins both of Louis’ wrists above his head and leans over him.

“Or we could buy a carpet,” he says. His eyes are still unfocused from sleep and his hair tickles over Louis’ cheeks. His breath smells like the coconut curry they ate earlier. Louis makes a face. Harry just grins at him. “It would look nice, wouldn’t it?” he asks. He’s not wrong; their new place is a lot bigger and they don’t have a lot of furniture yet, a carpet isn’t at all a bad idea. It would certainly make sleeping on the floor feel better as well. Louis just doesn’t fancy cleaning it.

“Buy one then,” he says. He doesn’t try to fight Harry off, just flexes his arms and squirms up a little until they’re sitting more comfortably. “You’re the breadwinner here now.”

“Oh please,” Harry snorts. “You aced that interview and you know it. That job is definitely yours,” he says confidently. His ears twitch wildly and he shakes his head out before leaning down and rubbing the side of his face over Louis’ chest.

“You’re the one complaining about being uncomfortable,” Louis says nonchalantly. He can feel Harry’s tail curling around his leg, the tip of it swishing back and forth over the arch of his foot. He suppresses a giggle. Harry presses down on his wrists. He rolls his hips suggestively, scrapes his teeth over Louis’ exposed collarbone. Louis laughs. “I wouldn’t call rug burn comfortable.”

“Fine,” Harry sighs as he sits up and crosses his arms over his chest. “We don’t have to get a rug,” he concedes. He’s pouting though, bottom lip sticking out petulantly and his mouth turned down. He’s ridiculous; his hair is a wild mess around his face and a he has a trail of dry spit running down his chin. Louis can practically feel the fondness spread all the way down to his toes like a jolt of electric current. He lifts himself up and kisses the tip of Harry’s nose, fingers of one hand curling around his soft hip while the other rests on the slight swell of his tummy.

“We’ll get as many rugs as you want,” he says, nudging Harry’s nose with his own and pressing a kiss to his lips instead to feel him smile. Harry’s hands find his shoulders seconds before his tail wraps around Louis’ waist. He tilts his head back. Louis runs his hand up to his chest, carefully skipping the angry red patches around the tattoos. He traces the heart-shaped pendant that sits in the dip of Harry’s throat; it’s blank for now. The dark green leather cuts the long line of Harry’s pale neck as perfectly as the navy blue of his old collar. This one is tighter, not enough to make breathing difficult but enough to sit snugly. Louis’d paid extra for quick delivery back in Manchester so he could put it on Harry their first night in London. He never thought collaring a person he loved would be so important to him. He leans forward and places a kiss at the centre of the pendant, leaving the surface smudged.

Harry’s fingers trace a line over the side of his neck. He tilts Louis’ head up. “Lou?”

“Hmm?”

“Would it… I want to wear one in public,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper as if there’s anyone around to overhear them. “Would that be okay with you?”

Louis’ mouth goes dry. He’s used to Harry wearing a collar by now and he’s even worn the blue one himself a few times, but somehow it still feels like an intensely private thing to him, something he would only share with close friends and maybe family. They still look at it differently though; to Harry it’s a point of pride, something to wear like a badge of honour, a symbolic mark of something he wants the entire world to know about. Louis swipes his thumb over the pendant. “This one?” he asks. His voice sounds strained. The thought of Harry looking like this in public feels strange.

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe,” he says. “I don’t… I don’t want a thin one. I don’t want jewellery. I want it to be a collar. I want people to know what it is.” The more he talks, the more confident he sounds in what he’s saying. Louis swallows audibly. This isn’t the same as kneeling behind Harry and combing his hair to the side to close the fastenings around his throat in the privacy of their own home. He’s seen cats walking around the city with thin day collars, delicate little things that could almost be passed off for choker necklaces, that are almost impossible to notice from afar and he’s seen the looks they get sometimes. He’s only seen one person with a thick black collar and a ring at the centre of it. And a bruise above it.

It’s not the same, he knows. He doesn’t think of Harry as any less of a person whether he wears a collar outside or not, never would. Any bruises he leaves anywhere on Harry’s body are marks Harry wants, even asks for. And Harry wants _this_ , he reminds himself. It’s not his place to deny it. He’ll get used to it, like he got used to seeing the leather wrapped around Harry’s neck whenever they’re at home, like he learned to love that he has to pause at the door whenever Harry comes in to put a collar on him. And in time, he’ll learn to understand why it matters to Harry to have that in front of other people as well. “Okay,” he says. “You can. I don’t mind.” He runs his thumb over the dark line of forest green. “A lighter one maybe?” he suggests, trying to picture Harry in one of his day-to-day outfits and find something that would match him.

Harry grins. “Pink?”

Louis laughs. Of course Harry would want pink. “Or peach,” he says pointedly. “Maybe violet.” He can see Harry with a simple collar in a delicate pastel, nothing over the top that would attract too much attention. He figures that’s a good compromise. Harry puts both hands on the sides of his face and tilts his head back up. He looks happy, dimples in his cheeks and pink lips stretched in a wide grin. Louis smiles back and closes his eyes, waiting for a kiss.

*

When Louis opens the door he doesn't expect to find Harry on the other side. Especially not a Harry who looks miserably wet and has his arms tightly wrapped around himself. "H?" he asks, confused. "Didn't you have an umbrella? And why are you knocking?"

Harry bites his lip and doesn't come in. "I may have done a thing," he says slowly.

Louis narrows his eyes. "A thing," he repeats, not sure if he's supposed to be angry or worried. He looks Harry up head to toe, doesn't find anything particularly unusual about him.

"Yes, a thing," Harry agrees with a nod. His ears twitch the way they usually do when he's happy. "I don't know how you're going to feel about the thing."

"Would you like to come in before you tell me about the thing?" Louis asks, feeling increasingly ridiculous having this conversation. Harry eyes him for a few moments and then finally steps inside. He's absolutely dripping over the floor, his hair curling in wet strands and raindrops caught in his eyelashes. His tail swings forward and wraps around Louis' ankle.

"Remember that night a long time ago--"

"Oh no," Louis whispers as realisation dawns on him. "Harry," he says slowly, "did you bring back a cat?"

Harry slowly unzips his jacket. A tiny black head pops out of it, yellow eyes staring unblinkingly up at Louis and a pink little nose twitching. It's just a kitten still, a few months old at most. "I brought back a cat," Harry says.

Louis starts laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> find me [on tumblr](http://captivekinqs.tumblr.com)


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